


Myths and Realities

by WendyNerd



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Angst, F/M, First sentence prompt, Jon and Alayne meet, Sexual Grooming, Sexual Tension, The Beautiful Bastard of Baelish, alayne stone - Freeform, myths and legends, promptfill, the vale
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-23
Updated: 2016-11-24
Packaged: 2018-05-28 16:39:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 37,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6336877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WendyNerd/pseuds/WendyNerd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: Alayne almost forgot herself when she spotted her half-brother among the black brothers in the hall.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Who We Are

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: Unbeta'd.
> 
> Got this as a first sentence prompt, it ended up being 20 years long. But people seemed to like it. Hope you guys enjoy!

That’s what the Prince’s Guard called themselves. Several were former watchmen, and all wore black. And right in the middle was the miserable-looking young man she’d once called “Half-brother.” 

 _But he is not Jon Snow anymore, just as I am not Sansa Stark_ , she reminded herself. _He is a prince, noble, legitimized by royal decree. I am a bastard, and nobody’s sister, half or otherwise._

Still, she’d thought seeing him again would be so sweet. But he looked so very, very sad. Not that the Jon she’d known had ever been particularly bouyant. He had taken after her— Sansa’s— father that way. She just hoped that through everything, he’d managed to keep his warm heart intact. 

Her father ushered the gawky Lord of the Vale forward, and both bowed, in velvets trimmed with white fur. She felt proud of Sweetrobin, who managed to bow without scowling, and performed all the proper courtesies. 

Jon’s eyes hovered on both Lord Baelish and Lord Arryn, uneasy in different ways, speaking in even tones, thanking them for their hospitality. Alayne kept wishing he’d look over at her, as stupid as she knew that was. Why would he recognize the bastard daughter of the Vale’s regent as anything but that? He’d know who she was, sure. Over the years, there’d been enough suitors, stories, rumors, and songs about the beautiful Bastard of Baelish, with her bonny blue eyes and Mother’s Heart. Some claimed she was an untouched maiden of incomparable virtue, her heart only belonging to her beloved, doting father and her adoring step-brother. Other’s claimed she was not only Robin’s mistress, but Harry Hardyng’s as well. Some said she was a sweet girl being held captive by her wicked father and the cruel lord of the Vale, who wished to keep her for himself. Some said she wasn’t Baelish’s daughter at all, but a Braavosi courtesan that he’d brought in to seduce the Lords of the Vale to his whims.

She didn’t know what Jon would believe of Alayne Stone, but there was no reason to believe he’d guess for even a moment that she and Sansa Stark were one. That he’d look at her and see his long-lost former half-sister, the highborn, trueborn, would-be kingslayer and daughter of Winterfell. Sansa was a ghost now. A legendary shapeshifter who had flown from the Red Keep as a winged wolf five years prior and had not been seen since. The elder of the Lost Princesses of the North.

Legends and myths. Her life, regardless of her name or birth, was one of legends and myths. Her father had told her that it was inevitable, with a face like hers. He liked promoting those legends, those myths. With the Lannisters vanquished, the best thing to do with his lovely daughter was to show her off as much as possible. 

“He is really coming to see you, Sweetling,” he’d told her, stroking her cheek before bed a week prior, “To gaze upon the Bastard Beauty.”

If he noticed her discomfort when he said this, he didn’t take note of it. Alayne had been in her dressing gown, sitting before her mirror and brushing her chestnut hair before bed. She frowned. “He has come to affirm Lord Arryn’s loyalty to the Iron Throne, you know that. On behalf of the King and Queen.”

“He came to us, rather than summoning our Sweetrobin to King’s Landing like the others. Why do you think that is?”

“As a courtesy for Lord Arryn’s health,” she insisted, disliking the conversation. 

“So he says.” Petyr sighed and began stroking her hair, his other hand on the small of her back, looking at her through the mirror, grin plastered to his smug face. “My sweet girl, you underestimate the power you have. The allure of a great beautiful maiden whose loveliness is spoken of across lands. The acclaim for you has eclipsed most of the highest-born maidens in the land. And unlike, say, the Little Rose of Highgarden, your flower has famously not been plucked. You are pure, beautiful, charming, famed. Along with great lands, great victories, and strong sons, the loveliest maiden is the greatest prize a man can take. Our lost prince already has the first two. And he cannot attain the third without the fourth.”

“You cannot possibly expect him to marry me!” Alayne said sharply, “He— He—”

“He is a prince, and you are a bastard,” her father said, nodding and misreading the intended protest, “He was a bastard too, once, Sweetling. We all rise. You are not just some random base-born wench, no merry Meg. You are the Lord of Harrenhal’s daughter, child of the Regent of the Vale, step-sister to the Lord Paramount of House Arryn, pursued and desired by the heir to the Eyrie and countless highborn men. The girl whose charms have overcome her birth— just like her old man—” He paused to lean down and kiss her cheek. She managed not to seize up. “Not some simple ‘Alayne Stone’, but ‘Alayne Jewel.’”

Alayne had squirmed. Three years ago Uther Shett had declared her that during a banquet while well in his cups, and the name had caught on. She loathed it. It made her sound like she was to be bought and sold. What she hated most was that it was probably deserved.

Her father continued. “But I am no fool, Alayne. I don’t expect the prince to ask for your hand immediately. That being said, I think he can be lured. Charm him, make him love you madly. As you did with poor Harry. Only, I think it best if we do not subject our prince to the same fate, of course.” He chuckled at this. 

Alayne felt even worse. She took no pride in what happened to Harry. And despite her lack of will in the matter, she felt only shame. Her father had denied the besotted Harry her hand when Sweetrobin began thriving unexpectedly. The Sweetsleep that Lord Robert was supposed to be taking refused to have the desired effect. The denial had driven the Young Falcon to drunkenness and dissolution. He’d gone from lusty young man to old, sad drunk almost overnight. She’d not intended that. She’d just wanted to keep her little lord safe.

“Deny him your full person, of course,” Petyr said, eyes dancing, “For as long as you might. Be only his good mistress. Have him promise you the world, and we’ll get it in writing. Then… when the time is right… grant him the one thing every other man has been denied.” His fingers began dancing along her shoulders playfully. “And let… nature take its course. The Targaryens are desperate for heirs, Daenerys’s fertility is still in doubt, and the prince has refused all the suits for his hand. They’ll want a trueborn heir so badly, they’ll put a coronet on your head, and the Iron Throne shall be ours.”

“But… Father…” She felt so afraid, unable to stop picturing Jon, the long-faced, awkward big brother who used to muss Arya’s hair, in her mind. But she could not say that. After a while, Father’s displeasure of any mentions of Sansa had grown, and his control of said displeasure had diminished. “I thought I was to keep my virtue under any circumstances. That it, along with my face, was my great prize!”

 _And what of later? Am I to surrender to a life as ‘Princess Alayne’? Or should I reveal myself? How much do you think he’ll love me if he finds out I was his former sister this whole time?!_ She had wanted to scream. 

“A prize only worthy of a crown.” He kissed her cheek again. “Now, go to sleep. I want my girl to get plenty of rest before the royal party arrives. You must be as fresh as a spring morning.”

Alayne had known her father was losing his mind for many a year now. It wasn’t obvious to everyone, but he was slipping more and more. Drinking more and more. Some days, with the way he touched her, she became certain he would try to lift her skirts and take her maidenhead then and there. Other days, he stood back from her as if she were aflame. He was obsessive about her safety and her virtue remaining intact. He practically bled gold to have singers write odes to her, to have her travel about to whatever grand tourneys were to be had in The Vale, making sure she secured crowns of roses at every one. It was as if he were trying to convince the world that his daughter was the Maiden in the flesh. And what was it all for? She wasn’t sure. He was always professing new plans these days. Poor ones, mad ones. 

 _Does he even remember who I am?_ She wondered as she stood in the entrance hall, watching her father introduce a of the greater Vale lords, his green-grey eyes shifting to her every so often. _What Jon was to me?_

Though it was almost hard for her to remember, looking at the prince now. The gawky boy was gone. In his place was a tall, dark, imposing, tragically-handsome man, with a close-cut beard and dark eyes that seemed to slice into all they viewed. She felt weak.

Finally, Baelish turned toward Alayne, gesturing towards her grandly so Jon’s eyes followed suit. He brought the prince to her. “And of course, the greatest treasure of the Vale, my precious natural daughter, Lady Alayne Stone.”

She curtsied low, eyes downcast. Looking at him gave her troubling feelings. But when he bid her rise and kissed the back of her hand, she had to look at him. There seemed to be something… a flicker… But perhaps it was her imagination.

“It is an honor, My Prince.”

“Likewise. You are well known, My Lady. And upon meeting you, I must plead for your forgiveness.”

“Forgiveness, My Lord?” She asked, truly interested. “For what?”

“The songs of your beauty have even found their way to The Wall. I am ashamed to say I thought them to be exaggerations,” he told her, his cheeks blushing ever so slightly, “But now I see that quite the opposite is true.”

A lie. No one looked like the absurd fairy-creature described in half of those songs. But at least he was addressing the compliment to her face and not her bosom. 

“How can I not pardon a man so gallant, My Prince?” She asked, smiling. Even though it was a lie, even though she’d heard things like this countless times and wanted to role her eyes, she could not help but feel an odd pride at hearing this from him. It mystified her, too. Her half-brother would have never, ever dared to say such things. When did he learn the art of flattery? When they were children, she’d had to give him tips, tell him the most obvious things, like to tell a girl that her name was pretty.

But she enjoyed it nonetheless. She also enjoyed how, speaking to her, Jon’s face appeared a bit less miserable. He liked her. Not a surprise, she supposed, people almost always liked her, men especially. But she found that she took the same level of pleasure in his regard that she usually reserved for the female friends she’d made. Not that the manner of her pleasure was the same.

She felt like a starry-eyed girl mooning over the Knight of Flowers again.

“Well, now that we’re acquainted, we may as well have you settled in,” Father announced, breaking the spell. He offered her his arm, “Come, Sweetling. We must allow our guests to rest after they’ve traveled so long and hard.”

He didn’t have to tell her to look back shyly as they walked away. She had to see if he was watching her. And he was,his gaze intent.

~_~_~_~_~

She couldn’t quite sit at the High Table. Or, at least, she wasn’t assigned a seat there. She was, after all, a bastard. But before long, her company was requested as it often was, with one of the prince’s gracious attendants surrendering his place so she could take one between her father and the prince. 

She’d dressed for the occasion, approved by Lord Baelish before arriving. Green damask with shocks of icy blue to bring out her eyes, and silver necklace with a pendant of a bird flying towards a crescent moon about her neck. Just treading the line of how grand a woman of her birth was allowed to dress. 

Not that she needed it, exactly. Though her personal jewelry box had expanded in the years since. 

Every so often, a rich and overzealous gentleman would gift her something. Sweetrobin himself was unendingly generous and affectionate with her. And her father liked to match their gifts. It was actually a waste, really, for her official station barred her from wearing as many of them as she’d like. Mostly they took up space. But they had their uses, and she’d never refused a gift, even if she refused the giver. She stored some of them away in secret, ready to smuggle them out and pawn them if necessary. She wasn’t sure how much her current store was worth, if it was enough to bring her home to Winterfell. 

Sometimes she wondered if that was even what she should do with the money. Rickon was Lord of Winterfell now, and it had been so long, she doubted if he’d even remember her. He was in the care of regents who likely would see her arrival as the occasion to marry her off as soon as possible to keep her from assuming any control— that is, if they even recognized her. 

Sometimes, when she was able to put her heartache for home aside, she considered Braavos, perhaps taking a career as one of their famed courtesans. But she imagined that she’d need far more money to accomplish such a thing. There was travel, guards, food, lodging, a barge…

Sometimes, Alayne fancied that she was already more or less a courtesan in The Vale, even if she was not yet ready to fund herself. Then there was the other matter…

When she took the honored place, she paused to wink at her little lord. At thirteen, Sweetrobin had begun to live up to his nickname, at least where she was concerned. By now, he’d also seen enough suitors come and go to give up his angry, jealous glares in favor of eye rolls. 

After five years and one broken betrothal, he now found her admirers funny. Alayne was his, as far as he was concerned. Not even Harry could take her. All the knights and lords in the world could moon over her as they liked, but she’d always love him best, and never leave him.

Alayne wasn’t sure he was wrong about the last part. And that scared her. She couldn’t leave Sweetrobin, not yet. Not until she could be sure of his safety.

But she turned her attention to Jon almost immediately, blushing modestly as she let her father pull out her chair. Though she’d been in this situation many a time, this one felt odd. The Jon she’d known was not the type to flirt or bring a lady to a place of honor. He’d been shy, nervous, blushing like a maiden when Theon Greyjoy told a bawdy tale, determined to give his life to the celibate order of the Night’s Watch. Now he was smiling at her like any other flirtatious courtier when only moments before he’d appeared thoroughly unhappy.

 _Perhaps he takes pleasure in elevating a bastard, after how he was raised._ She insisted to herself that that was it. Her father had a similar drive, bringing up low birth in the face of the highborn nobles he now controlled. 

“How was your trip up the mountain?” Alayne asked as the prince deigned to fill her cup.

“Wind-swept, despite the new summer. Wet, unbalanced, and crowded. My men and I were packed together like sardines at certain points.”

Alayne laughed, “If you disliked it, then you definitely will not like the trip down. Making your way down the Giant’s Lance is no easy feat. I’m a petrified mess every time.”

Not true, but a common lie she told, even to the young man who had by now accompanied her down the same path half a dozen times. 

“On the contrary, I enjoyed it. It reminded me of The Wall.”

“I’ve never met anyone who looks back on the Wall with fondness,” she remarked. _You died there. You saw other men die there._

“It depends on what parts of it I’m looking back on. It has an odd beauty. And there, I at least got to be alone sometimes. Now I’m like a mother duck leading a trail of ducklings.”

Her face fell. “You do not enjoy the company of your men?”

“Sometimes. I am usually a more solitary sort. It’s rare that I enjoy company at all.” He smiled slightly then. “Thus, it’s a great joy when I encounter an exception, My Lady.”

“Everyone likes being with Alayne,” Sweetrobin interrupted. “Even the girls like her, even though girls are always jealous of each other, especially of the girls like Alayne.”

“Now My Lord, that is not true!” Alayne insisted, annoyed. He sometimes said these things. Attitudes he’d picked up from his mother. And he liked to think that girls were hateful and jealous of her secretly. He saw her female friends as threats, since he knew she genuinely enjoyed spending time with Mya and Myranda. He wanted to be the only one she cared for. “My Lady Myranda and Mya are good, loving friends to me. And women are not so jealous as people claim. It’s men that you see constantly drawing blades on one another for one infraction or another.”

She looked over to where Myranda was sitting with her new husband, and lifted her cup to her, smiling. The new Lady Ruthermont grinned at her, an unspoken bawdy joke seeming to play at her full lips.

“True.” Jon said, nodding to her. “I think the actions of ladies tend to be judged more harshly, and as representative of the actions of all members of your sex. If popular opinion is to be believed, a man is just a man, and there is always some reason to justify his actions. Whereas a woman is all women, and they’re not supposed to have any worthy reason for their decisions.” 

Alayne stared at Jon, wide-eyed. “And you have much experience with the fairer sex, My Lord? Many pardons, but given your years in the Watch, that is unexpected.”

Their royal guest shrugged. “I grew up with two sisters as different as night and day. And though my life has not been as flush with female companionship as some, it has allowed me the opportunity to examine the ones I do meet that much more closely. Though my time in The Watch wasn’t quite as lacking in female presence as you’d imagine.”

She laughed. “Yes, I had forgotten about the wildlings.”

“They prefer to call themselves the Free Folk.”

“Whatever they like to call themselves, they bent the knee in the end, didn’t they?” Father cut in, grinning, eyes flashing, “Hard to argue with dragons.”

“That was more ceremonial than anything, My Lord,” Jon replied, his face and tone suddenly grave, “But they live more independently than any other subjects, highborn or low.”

“Of course.” Petyr’s face suddenly sobered. “I had heard that many fought bravely.”

“Indeed they did.” Jon looked down at his plate, his mood now darkened. Alayne glanced at her father, and he nodded at her encouragingly.

Carefully, she slipped a hand to his arm that was placed atop the table by his plate. He glanced at her, but her eyes were on Lord Robert. “My Lord Sweetrobin…”

Lord Arryn, who had been looking sulkily at his peas since her reprimand, instantly looked up. “Yes, My Lady?”

“If I may,” she said quietly to Jon, removing the napkin from her lap. He helped her from her seat, and she went over to her lord, bending over to whisper in his ear. He nodded at her request, and she rewarded him with a kiss to the cheek before returning to her seat. Then, with a smile, she took her golden fork in hand and began tapping the side of her cup, interrupting the flow of conversations with a ringing sound. The Lord of the Eyrie got to his feet, golden cup raised.

“My Lords, My Ladies, tonight I would like to voice a few regards. First, I wish to toast our royal guest, Prince Jon of the House Targaryen for his gracious visit and gestures of friendship, and to the continued unity and friendship between the Vale and the Iron Throne!”

Cries of enthusiasm went out and everyone took a sip. Proper as could be, Robert waited for the cries to die down. “Secondly, I wish to call for a drink and some moments of silence out of respect for those heroes who fought back the scourge of the Others and protected our world. To those highborn and lowborn, from below the Wall and beyond it, to those who survived and those who died. To our saviors of the dawn.”

Everyone bowed their heads and there was a long, solemn moment. Alayne clasped her hands in her lap. After a few seconds, she was surprised to find a hand reaching to her lap. Instead of grasping her thigh like she feared, it took one of her hands. She glanced to the side and saw Jon staring at her appreciatively.

When the moment passed, his hand slipped away discreetly. But his compliment was the most sincere she’d heard in a long time. “You are truly a great lady, madam.”

She felt her heart flutter at that. And she wished everyone else in the room would disappear. 

Eventually, the minstrels were bid to play, and the dancing was announced. “Do you dance, My Prince?” She asked. She hated asking. She knew the answer. Or, at least, she knew what the answer would be from Jon Snow. He’d always been fast and graceful in the training yard, but that was where his grace had remained. When forced to dance, he was awkward and nervous, staring at his feet. But that was something Sansa knew, not Alayne.

“I am afraid I do not make a habit of it. I lack the skill.”

Pretending became a whole lot harder now. She’d hoped that Jon Targaryen might have a different answer than Jon Snow. She felt ashamed now, like a fraud.

“If he won’t dance, I will!” Robert got to his feet eagerly, offering his hand. 

“Now, My Lord, you do not want to over-exert yourself!” Father said, annoyed. He hated when Robert danced. He liked the Lord of the Vale stationary and weak.

“I’m not,” Robert insisted, “I’m under-exerting myself thus far, and if I don’t move, I won’t be able to get to sleep tonight!”

“We have your medicine for that!”

The little lord reddened. “I don’t need medicine. I just need to dance… a little.”

“Let them dance,” Jon said encouragingly, “I’d like to see it.”

“Come on, Alayne,” Sweetrobin said, seizing her hand and dragging her to the floor. Everyone else was paused and to the side, ready to let their lord lead.

At thirteen, and after years in the sickbed, Robert Arryn was no great dancer. He was amateurish at best. He’d only started having lessons a few years ago, private ones, with his current partner. But what he lacked in grace, he made up for in enthusiasm, clasping her hand and waist with an almost painfully firm grasp and moving a little too quick to match the rhythm. Alayne actually loved dancing with him, for it was comedic to witness the court and the musicians speed up to try and match his pace. They often tripped doing it, and in comparison, it made her little lord appear less clumsy.

“Is that prince bothering you?” He demanded of her. “Targaryens are not good, honorable people. We’re supposed to pretend they are now that they’ve taken back the throne, but they’re not. His father stole maidens. That’s why my father went to war with them and killed them.”

“Not at all, Sweetrobin,” she replied, reddening, “Prince Jon is perfectly gallant. Not as gallant as you, of course. That was a lovely speech you made. Worthy of a great lord.”

He smiled in spite of himself. “I was practicing the toast to our guests that you taught me. And I made up the words to the next part myself. I’m going to be able to rule myself soon, don’t you think?”

“Soon,” she promised with a nod, “And I’ll be glad of it. I think my father deserves to retire soon. I’m just glad he can do it and leave the Vale to such a fine lord as you.”

“Lord Baelish should retire and go to Harrenhal and be an old man. He’s not like he used to be.”

That caught her attention. She would not have expected Robin to notice. Sometimes, the lad surprised her with insight. She glanced nervously at her grandly-gesturing father, whose face was already a bit reddened by drink.

“That’s what happens when one gets to a certain age, I suppose. But he has been a good father and regent to you.”

“He’s not my father,” Robert said sourly, “He’s just my step-father. I’m the son of Lord Jon Arryn and Lady Lysa Tully, blood of the Eyrie.”

Her heart ached. _And I am the daughter of Lord Eddard Stark and Lady Catelyn Tully, blood of Winterfell. But that hasn’t changed things for me._

As was usual, she did not voice her thoughts. “You are. And as worthy an heir as any the Vale has known. I’m very proud of you. Like a mother.”

His initial beam turned to a frown. “I don’t want you to be my mother anymore, Alayne. I’m a man grown, almost. I don’t need a mother. Couldn’t we marry when I’m of age?”

 _Not this again._ “My Lord, you know why that is impossible.”

“No. I don’t think it is anymore,” Robert insisted. “Everyone in the Vale loves you. Even the ones who don’t like your father. And if we marry when I’m of age, no one can say I was forced. All we’d need to do is send your father back to Harrenhal, and I’ll tell everyone that I chose you as my lady, and then we can get married in the throne room. And if anyone tries to stop the wedding, we’ll make them fly. Then we can be together forever.”

“You need to make a good alliance, with a girl from a great House. It is your duty to preserve the greatness of the Arryn bloodline.”

“Your father is Lord of Harrenhal! He was Lord of the Riverlands too!”

“I’m a bastard. And besides, he earned those honors, he wasn’t born into them. He was originally the lowest lord in the land.”

“Didn’t stop him from marrying my mother.”

“He was still trueborn.” _And your mother was a barren lunatic who was obsessed with him._  “And that was a different time.”

“Is your father making you say no?” He asked. “Does he want you to marry that prince?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” _Don’t be right._  “I’m a lowborn bastard.”

“Usually I think your suitors are funny, but this one is different. You like him. You act like he’s an old friend.”

She sighed now. “My Lord, please stop it. You’ll find a better girl to be your wife. Highborn, prettier, better.” 

He pulled her a bit closer, his voice suddenly carrying a tremor of fear. “I’m afraid for you, Alayne. I want to keep you safe.”

She managed to force a laugh then. “Safe? From what? What are you afraid of? I’m fine. I always am.”

He scowled and blushed, looking down at his feet. He slowed immediately, causing an awkward ripple effect along the dance floor. “I think your father is right. I’ve tired myself.”

“Would you like me to come with you?”

“I don’t need to be tucked in. I’m not a child!”

She watched miserably as her cousin broke away, bid a quick farewell to his court, claimed a headache, and trudged off.

Everyone stared at her, and she immediately composed herself. As if by my magic, her father was immediately by her side. “Clearly our Lord did manage to over-exert himself after all!”

He said this with a smile and a wink, and there were nervous laughs. The music struck up again, and her father took her in hand. “What upset the little brat now?”

“The usual.”

Lord Baelish wrinkled his nose. “He’ll probably start stealing bits of your hair and underthings next. His mother used to do things like that with me. Crazy sods. Well, no matter. At least he still wants you. And he’s not the only one.” He grinned and jerked his head to the head table. Jon was watching them. “He’s mad for you already. I’ll have to be careful or he’ll steal you out from under my nose and take you off to the Tower of Joy.”

She frowned. “That isn’t funny.”

He shrugged. “Well, you’re not as daft as Lyanna is, thank the gods. You’ve got my brains.”

Thoroughly disgusted, she increased the distance between their bodies and, once the song ended, immediately pulled away. “Excuse me, Father, I think I’ll go back to my seat.”

He smiled and nodded, not detecting her displeasure. _He thinks I’m just proceeding with his plan. He always thinks I’m with him._ Alayne loathed him.

Jon got up to pull her chair out for her. “Weary, My Lady?”

“In more ways than one.”

She considered him for a moment. And at that moment, she decided she was done. _No more._ No more half-playing along with Littlefinger’s plans. It was time to move on. As long as she did it smart, she could still keep Robin safe.

“Actually,” she said, “I think I may need some fresh air. If anyone needs me, I’ll be on the balcony.”

“May I escort you? I’m feeling a little stuffy myself.”

She smiled. “Of course, My Prince.” 

As she let him him lead her out, she managed to glance back at her father and wink. He looked thrilled. _Yes, you idiot. Enjoy your triumph now._

The evening are was cool and crisp, but just cool enough. As she looked out on the courtyard, she realized with a jolt that it was the same one where she’d built her snow castle so many years ago. The thought made her want to weep. She leaned over the ledge, resting her arms there, looking up at the starlit sky. “Do the stars shine so bright at the Wall?”

Jon took a place beside her, mimicking her position. “Very much like this, yes. When I was with the wildlings, we’d compare the names our people had for constellations. One time, I looked at my wolf, Ghost, and wondered if wolves named the stars as well.”

His wolf. Her heart ached. _Lady._ Gods, she missed Lady. “Where is Ghost now?”

“In the North. I was told he wouldn’t be welcome in The Vale, and their Graces only tolerate him when I am around, so I sent him to Winterfell. He’s got my bro-cousin’s wolf, Shaggydog, for company. They were littermates.”

Now she was actively fighting tears. _Even if I went back to Winterfell, I’d have no wolf to join them._ She forced herself to stay calm, though. _It’s time. Begin. It’s now or never._ “Let me guess… They were a litter of six. Two female, four male. One for each of the Stark children.”

He turned his head. “…Yes. And mine was the runt of the litter, an albino, and a mute to boot. Perfect for a bastard.” Then he flinched. “That is… I didn’t mean..”

She held up a hand. “It’s fine. I am not ashamed of it. The only reason it matters is because some idiots long ago decided it did.” She affected a nonchalant toss of her hair. “But I have no shame for it. There are trueborn lords and ladies who kill and cheat and maim and they aren’t expected to feel shame. A bastard’s only supposed crime is being born without their parents saying a few words before an altar or heart tree first. Birth is an illusion. I am a bastard, and so is one of my best friends. And she’s been a better person than most trueborn folk I’ve met. And look at you. The great hero of the Dawn.”

He blushed. “Please don’t associate what you’ve heard too much with the man beside you, my lady. They have built up this myth, and I have no idea who that person they sing of is.”

“I know exactly what you mean.” Her shoulders sagged. “It’s hard to really know who you are sometimes, when there’s thousands of strangers calling out your name and making stories. And you wonder ‘What makes me so special when there are plenty of others who have done as much or more, who are forgotten?’ And then you feel guilty for being remembered or praised when those more deserving are not. The only way to cope is to know that they’re not really singing about you, not really. They’re singing of someone else.”

“Exactly.” He smiled at her, genuinely. She saw plenty of smiles, but few that were as genuine as his. “I think we may have much in common, My Lady.”

“Yes. Below the surface, we probably have far more in common than you realize.” She smiled back at him, so oddly comfortable that she almost forgot her purpose. “Makes you wonder how else we might connect.”

 _Anyone could be listening_ , she reminded herself, be careful. She moved in closer to him. “I am glad to get to know you, My Prince.”

“Likewise, My Lady.” He hesitated for a second, then asked, “I hope you don’t think me too forward, but may I steal a kiss?”

“One cannot steal what is freely given.”

She waited for him to kiss her, keeping herself as demure as possible. But it wasn’t easy. His mouth was soft and warm and gentle. And all of a sudden, the night seemed so warm. Their mouths parted. He tasted like ale. It took far too long for her to remember what was actually happening and pull away. “I can’t!”

“I’m so sorry!” He told her hastily. “I—”

She reached out and put a hand to his shoulder, then leaned in again. I’m so sorry, Jon. “I can’t here. Not now.” She whispered. “When the castle is asleep, I will come to your chambers and knock four times.”

“Are you… Are you sure?”

“Do not presume to have conquered my virtue just yet, My Prince.” She said, trying to act coy. “As much as I may have enjoyed that, I enjoy speaking to you more.”

He watched her in amazement as she departed.

~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~

She made sure she was hooded when she went to his rooms. She knew where he was, and she knew how to get there with the least risk of being seen. She’d now spent half a decade running this household, after all. Before she knocked, though, she took a deep breath. It was time. _He’s going to hate me._

He answered at once, as if he’d been waiting by the door, and greeted her in his breeches and his tunic, hanging low on his neck and exposing his collarbone. A candlestick glimmered in his hand, and he led her in wordlessly, shutting the door behind her and bidding her to sit by the fire.

He hadn’t seized and kissed her, as some men might have. But she could only be grateful for that. She set herself down primly in one of the overstuffed armchairs and waited for him to take the seat next to her to speak. “This… This is difficult… I don’t know where to begin.”

His voice was soft, cautious. “It’s alright, Alayne. Not that it matters much to me, but for the sake of your comfort, I must ask… Are you still a maiden?”

She cupped her temple. “Yes!”

“If you’re not, it’s fine. I would not judge.”

“I am a maiden!” She fumed. “That is not what worries me!”

He swallowed. “I’m sorry, I was over-eager. I just wouldn’t wish to hurt you.”

“I think I may be the one to hurt you tonight, Jon.”

He looked a little taken aback at being addressed by name. But he also looked pleased. “I am glad you’re calling me that. But why would you hurt me?”

There it was. That innocent curiosity. She looked at him in shock. _How does he manage that, after all he’s seen?_ Alayne couldn’t take it anymore. The tears fell. He immediately got up and crouched beside her. “I’m sorry! What did I say?”

She looked at him, aghast. “Jon, don’t you recognize me?”

There was doubt in his gaze then, worry. “Gods… I knew it. I knew I’d met you before. Somewhere. As soon as we met, I felt like… Like I’ve known you my whole life. You remind me… I don’t know why, but you remind me so much of home. But I thought it was impossible.”

“It’s me, Jon. It’s…” She actually had to force herself. She’d not said that name in months. Not since the last time her father raised a hand to her. “… Sansa.”

He stared at her for several seconds like he’d not heard her. Then he pulled away somewhat, trying to work out if it could be true. Recognition… begrudging, shocked, shamed recognition dawned on him slowly. “Sansa?! But how?! But we…. But, Cersei Lannister had Sansa killed!”

She shook her head. “No. It’s me. Remember?” All at once, words tumbled out. She scrambled for proof. Sansa memories. “Remember when you first brought the wolves home? And the others were so happy at once, but I was nervous. And so to prove to me that Lady was gentle, you put her on her back and went, ‘See how she doesn’t fight you? That’s how you know.’ And I was in love. And those times I used to instruct you on how to talk to ladies? Remember that time Arya put lizards in my bed when I was nine and I cried and wet my sheets? And you came in and helped me change them and didn’t tell anyone, and made Arya confess and apologize. It’s me, Jon. I’ve been here, I’ve been Alayne ever since Joffrey was killed.”

_See Sansa. I know the last time you saw me I still had my wolf. But please. See Sansa so I can be her again._

There was a long silence. He looked down for a while, then up again. And she knew. He saw her. “Sansa… This is incredible. I thought everyone but Rickon was gone! But why haven’t you tried to go home?”

She closed her eyes. “It’s not so easy, Jon. Fa-Lord Baelish, he…. he is a hard man to separate oneself from. And Robert needs me, and I wasn’t sure how to come home, if I’d even be recognized, and what would happen after. I’ve been needed here. And I’ve been Alayne so long that I sometimes forgot who I was. Everything has changed so much, and I have no idea what I’d be going back to. And… It’s complicated.”

“Is he holding you hostage? Has he threatened you?” Jon demanded, eyes flashing.

“In a number of ways. He’s made it clear that I can only ever be Alayne. And I’ve been trying to plan an escape but…”

“What?”

She began to shake. “For years… For years he’s been trying to poison Sweetrobin. I found out several months after. He was planning for Robin to die, for me to marry his heir, and to use the forces of the Vale and the Riverlands to take back the North. I’ve been keeping Robert alive… Petyr doesn’t know. And if anyone found out, I could be blamed and killed. I’m the only thing keeping him safe.”

“Sansa… Gods.” He got up and began pacing. More silence. 

“…Are you angry with me?” She asked.

“For what?”

“For misleading you. For… I don’t know… Not bringing down Baelish. For letting you kiss me. For being weak. For not being brave.”

He stopped short, suddenly looking awkward. “Sansa, you’ve been protecting your cousin for five years. That’s not weak or cowardly.”

“If I were brave, like you, I’d have found a way to expose Baelish and kill him.” Why was she saying this out loud?

“No. Sansa, gods, listen to me on this… Killing is not what bravery and strength is. Protecting others? Yes. But it doesn’t have to be at the tip of a blade. I’ve seen many cowards take a life. Please, there’s no greatness in that. Don’t think that. I know that for certain.” He swallowed. “As for… As for the balcony, I…. I don’t even know what to think. I cannot… I cannot think about that now. Sansa… Do you have any way to prove what he’s done?”

She nodded. “Every so often, I keep some of the food Baelish has prepared for Robert.”

“Good. Good.” He took a deep breath. “I can get you out, Sansa. Without Robert being harmed. At least, I believe so. I just need the right plan…”

“I already have one.” She said, almost overcome with relief. He doesn’t hate me! He’s helping me!

Jon’s eyes widened. “You do?”

“Fa-Lord Baelish… He wishes for me to become your mistress.” She blushed. “In a manner of speaking. He wants me to ensnare you into marriage.”

His response was one of understandable revulsion. “But you— He’s—”

“He’s a pimp. First and foremost, before anything else, he’s a pimp.” She said bitterly.

“But we were…”

“He doesn’t care. He will sell anyone to anyone, for the right price.”

Jon came closer, grabbed her by the shoulders, and looked deeply into her eyes. “How many men has he sold you to?”

She blushed. “It’s not quite… I did not lie when I told you I was a maiden. He’s made sure I stay untouched so he can sell me for the highest prize. You’re the highest prize. And I’m not even to bed you at first. As he put it, I was to deny you, make you want me until desperation got you to make the right promises, then give myself and try to conceive so you’d need to marry me. I’m… I’m good at making men desperate. Harry Hardyng still cries my name into every bottle he empties. And Petyr himself… I didn’t even mean for that to happen, but it did. And…”

“…It’s alright.” He took a deep breath. “So then… We play along? Let Baelish think his plan is working? I invite you and Baelish to court, on the idea that you’re my new mistress and I’m advancing him as payment for you, getting him away from Robert.”

“You’ll need to invite Robert to court as well. Petyr won’t leave him for too long. He’s too important.”

“Fine. Robert Arryn comes too. We’ll say… We’ll say he’s formally being invested as Warden of the East. And when we get to court, I inform my aunt and half-brother, we present the evidence… Reveal you…”

She nodded. “Yes. I’ll arrange to have Nestor Royce made Acting Regent. Petyr made him permanent lord of the Gates of the Moon, but I doubt he’s as loyal as Petyr thinks. I have more to reveal as well…” She swallowed heavily. “He killed Lysa Arryn, Jon. Right in front of me. And that’s not all”

“What?!”

She explained it to him. She told him about Lysa, about the tears in Jon Arryn’s wine, about Joffrey. Jon crouched down, holding his face. “Gods, how did you ever come to be in the hands of such a man?”

“It’s how things happened.” She sighed and looked at her lap. “Are you sure you don’t hate me for not destroying him?”

“You are taking him out. You came to me. Sansa, you are not responsible for this man’s crimes.” Jon groaned. Then he asked. “Then what comes after? After he’s dead, what then?”

She looked down, uncomfortable. “I suppose I’ll go back to Winterfell, Sansa Stark once more.” She bit her lip. “I’m sure I’ll have even more suitors then, this time with their inheritances assured. The North could profit greatly from my bride price. Wyman Manderly is regent now, yes? He’s a shrewd man, I’m sure he’ll secure the highest match he can for me.”

“That’s it? After everything, you return home again just to be married off immediately?” He sounded horrified.

“It’s what ladies are for. And I doubt Lord Manderly would want me in Winterfell for too long, I could challenge his hold on the regency.” She smiled bitterly. 

“He’s a bannerman of the North.”

“…Who recovered Rickon and has been ruling for too long to let some girl come in and threaten him.” She sighed. “Sweetrobin may get his wish after all. I may very well end up Lady of the Vale.”

“Is that what you want?”

It seemed an odd question to ask. What could he mean by that? “I don’t understand.”

“Lord Arryn is obviously besotted with you, and the people of the Vale hold you in high esteem. They’ll probably feel that way even more once they find out you’ve been keeping Robert alive all these years. The Eyrie is one of the safest places in Westeros. You’d be one of the highest-ranking women in the realm. Do you… Do you want to marry Robert Arryn?”

She gaped at him. “Those… Those are all very good reasons for me to do it. But… No… I… I… I don’t want to. I want to be safe, and I want to be loved, and I want a good marriage. But… he’s like a son to me and… To me, he’ll always be that sickly little boy with the shaking spells and the runny nose. I’m safe and adored here. That’s not all I want.”

“What would you want then?” He asked her. “I won’t let them sell you off, I promise it. You don’t have to go to Winterfell necessarily. You could have a place at court. And even if you go back North, I will make it clear to Lord Too-Fat-To-Sit-A-Horse that your future is your own and your home is your own. I could even try to make you regent, if you wish.”

She cupped her brow. “I don’t know, Jon. What would you like me to do?”

“I want you to do what makes you happy. Otherwise, it’s not about what I want. Whatever you want to do with your life… It’s yours.”

Sansa closed her eyes for a few seconds, trying to process this. It was hard. The conversation had gone in a direction she was utterly unfamiliar with. Whatever she wanted to do with her life? She’d been trained from birth to marry and smile and obey and please. Her life was supposed to be about someone else. Not her. “I’m not sure. Jon… It’s so hard. I want to not be afraid or ashamed. I want to feel alive. I want to know and be who I am. I want to be able to live without lying all the time. But I’m not sure I know how.”

She felt so scared, like a little child again. 

A second later, she was enveloped in a warm embrace. A gentle one. A giving one. She fell into it. She cried again, and they were not pretty tears.

…But for some reason, she felt better than she could remember ever feeling. It was like a weight that she didn’t even realize was crushing her was being lifted a little with every tear. 

“It’s alright, Sansa,” he murmured into her neck, stroking her hair, “I… know… The same thing… The same thing is happening to me. I died, and since, I’d forgotten how to feel alive again. But… But maybe we can help each other.”

She nodded into his shoulder. 

Before she knew it, there was light just starting to appear from the window, and she had to pull away. “I have to go,” she said, hating her words. She didn’t want to leave the room. She felt almost like leaving him was like leaving Sansa again. She didn’t want to be Alayne anymore. But she had to. She composed herself, trying to think. “Approach me at breakfast and ask me to show you the gardens. When we come back, announce that you’ll be extending your stay. Take a meeting with Lord Baelish, indulge him some, but also act distracted. We have to make sure you convince everyone that you’re madly in love with me.”

“I hope I’m up to the challenge.”

“Just convince yourself I’m Alayne. You seemed to like her very much. I’m only Sansa when I’m in here.”

“…Of course.” He looked glum again, then got to his feet, and began leading her to the door. She reached for the handle, but he grabbed her hand. They looked into one another’s eyes, and suddenly she was out of breath.

“Sansa… I…”

“Yes?”

“Nothing.” He reddened and opened the door for her. “Take care of yourself. I will see you at breakfast.”

The ruse wasn’t exactly easy to keep up. Sansa couldn’t help herself. Alayne was gone, but not all of Alayne’s feelings were. After a week, she was sick with herself. He was so brave and gentle and strong. She felt like she was home again. She felt… Other things. 

He seemed to detect it, too, if his awkwardness was any indication. And with every passing day, her spirits sank despite their success, because she knew they were both aware of her shame. Her heat. The unspoken truth. And that he was likely disgusted with her.

Then one morning, during what had become their daily walk in the gardens, he said to her, “When the castle is asleep, meet me in the godswood.”

Something had happened, she was sure. Something important. Something that affected their plans. Or perhaps he’d grown so repulsed by her that he was abandoning everything. With dread, she stole out into the night to the godswood, feeling like no time had passed since that night in the Red Keep when she met Dontos Hollard.

He was waited for her, one arm propped against the trunk of the tree, his pose almost sacrilegious. When he saw her, though, he straightened up at once. In the moonlight he looked… scared.

“What is it?” _Baelish has threatened him. He’s found out._

“I can’t take this anymore,” he said, his voice strained. “Last time… I lied to her the whole time. And I can’t do that again. Even though you’ll hate me. Even though… Just know, I would never… I meant what I said that first night. You are free to do what you want. I will make sure of it. I just need you to know the truth.”

She stepped back, frightened. “Jon… Have you been drinking?”

“A little. To try and calm my nerves.” His nerves must have been considerable, considering how he swayed. “But I’ve been planning on this all day. I’ve been sure of this for days. Probably longer, but I didn’t want to admit it to myself. But I had to. And now I have to admit it to you too, or I don’t know what will happen.”

Sansa took a deep breath. “Alright, alright. Just tell me.”

With that, he sank to his knees. “Sansa… It doesn’t matter that you were my sister. You’re still Sansa, but you’re not my sister Sansa. Maybe it’s me. But I can’t love you like a brother. I don’t. I wish I did, but I don’t. I love you the way I have no right to love you. I’m so sorry. But you need to know. I can’t be dishonest with another woman I love. And I can’t lie to you.”

She felt dizzy all of a sudden. “Jon…” She’d gotten more than one drunken confession of love before. But this one was different. _We’re the same._

She believed him, too. She wasn’t used to believing these declarations. Those others were in love with a mask. With the girl from the songs. A smile creeped across her face. “I suppose we were right. We have much in common. Below the surface.”

He moved to get to his feet and embrace her. But she stepped back and held up a hand. “Not now. Not tonight. Not while you’re in this state. We both need time. But I love you, Jon. I do.”

His smile was as bright as the stars above them. “Yes. I know.”

With a giddy heart, she returned to her quarters. It was wrong, perhaps, but she wanted to be done with shame and lies. And now, she had a slightly better understanding of what she _did_ want.


	2. Conflicts, Motives, and Wilting Flowers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alayne and Myranda have a bath, Robin throws a fit, Jon has issues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long! I actually wrote the original draft of this a couple of weeks ago, all from Sansa's perspective, until I realized how necessary the Jon POV was. But I hope the length makes up for it!
> 
> Warning: Unbeta'd!

 

Sansa:

The tub was large, too large for one person, really. It had been made for her Aunt Lysa, and left to storage until she and Myranda dug it up one day when working on a household inventory.

Alayne kept it, hidden in her dressing chamber in The Eyrie. Ever since Lysa’s death, she’d inhabited a lavish suite in the Maiden’s Tower that had belonged to numerous daughters of the Eyrie before, including a few ruling Lady Arryns before their marriage bed brought them elsewhere. It had a private privy, dressing room, solar, and bedchamber, and a balcony with a magnificent view of the Vale.

During the winter, she’d first inhabited smaller chambers at the Gates of the Moon, more befitting a bastard. She quickly became a much-desired bedmate of Myranda’s, spending most of her nights in those noble chambers as opposed to the small bed deemed fit for her. After Lady Myranda became Lady Ruthermont, Myranda’s chambers, at the lady’s request, became “Alayne’s”.

Any outcry over a bastard girl receiving such treatment had been prevented by that point. Anyone who might have complained during those early days didn’t dare by the time of Myranda’s wedding. At that point, everyone treated it as the logical, sensible thing. She was the dearest friend of Lady Myranda, the primary caretaker of their Lord, the betrothed of Harry the Heir, the daughter of their Lord Protector, and “The Vale’s favorite daughter.” Lady Alayne was owed honor, the name “Stone” rarely spoken aloud. Visitors at a certain point even arrived addressing her as Lady Alayne Baelish, and rarely were they corrected directly.

Still, it did not do for Alayne to just inherit all of Lady Lysa’s things. But the tub, she kept, for those special occasions when Myranda was able to visit The Eyrie and bathe with her.

Now, the two of them, sitting across from one another, legs intertwined, lounged in the hot water, the scent of the almond oil her friend had bought from Gulltown permeating the air.

“I have to be careful to keep my hair dry,” Myranda remarked, eyes closed.

“Why?” It was not unheard of for ladies to bathe together.

Her friend raised her head with a playful eye. “If my Lord Husband were to discover I’d spent the afternoon naked with you, I’m fairly certain his stones would explode from excitement.”

Alayne blushed. She used to try not to with Myranda, knowing full well it was the reaction that her friend desired when she said such things. But she’d given up long ago. “Then don’t tell him you were bathing with me.”

Myranda chuckled. “He knows who I spend my time with, Alayne. He’d be wondering where I found time for a bath. But then again, I could just say you took off this afternoon.”

“Surely he knows I would never do such a thing.”

“Oh, I think it’s plenty believable now. No one would question for a second why you might abandon your old friend Randa.”

Alayne pursed her lips. “I’d never do such a thing. Why would anyone think so?”

“To spend even more time with Prince Jon.” Myranda grinned outright now.

Sansa sighed. She’d been waiting for this. And preparing. “If I were to give him my afternoons, I would speak to you beforehand, Madam. And arrange it so as not to show you any discourtesy.”

“I think a little discourtesy is allowed when a prince is involved, though I congratulate you for resisting the temptation so far. I’m touched. But I have to admit, I’m a tad frustrated as well.”

“Frustrated?” Sansa asked, her tone carrying an innocence she did not possess. “Why?”

“He’s been here for a fortnight, and you’ve used none of our time together to tell me what is happening between you two. The whole court is gossiping about it, and I have nothing to tell them. Me, your greatest friend! How do you think that makes me feel?”

“Perhaps you having nothing to tell them is my reason for not divulging anything.”

Myranda shrugged. “Oh, honestly, you know that I’d never reveal anything truly compromising. I know how to keep the secrets that matter. I think I’ve proven that.”

Despite the hot water, Sansa felt her blood run cold. She gave her friend a careful look.

Sometimes this happened.

Myranda knew Alayne wasn’t who she said she was. She’d likely known since they first met. How much she actually knew, Sansa couldn’t be sure of. But her friend, however she’d figured it out, had not shared this with anyone.

For the most part, the two of them continued to pretend that Alayne was who she said she was, and that Myranda knew nothing. Sansa had no idea why the Royce girl kept quiet, but she appreciated it nonetheless. Every so often, though, Randa would say something, something that served as a strong reminder that she knew her friend had a great secret.

Often at times like this, when Alayne held out on her.

Sansa flushed with guilt. She guarded her tongue around Randa. It wasn’t that she distrusted Randa herself, but she distrusted anyone who might overhear their conversations. Every time she saw her friend, she felt the burning, overwhelming desire to simply tell her everything. But she couldn’t. Especially not now.

It killed her. Having to keep secrets from one of the few people worthy of them.

She took a deep breath. “I believe… I believe I may actually be in need of some of your counsel before long.”

Randa’s eyes flashed. “No! Our perfect little untouched maiden, sacrificing her precious virtue at last?!” She barked with laughter, throwing her head back. “I’ve been waiting so long for this day to come! I guess we finally know what it takes to Bed the Baelish Beauty! A crown!”

But then she straightened up and gave Alayne a careful look. “Tell me true, Alayne, are you seeking a crown for yourself in all of this?”

Alayne shifted uncomfortably. Her answer to this would be of great importance.

“I believe my father may seek one, but my ambitions fall short of his. He’s made what he wants clear. I met Jon not knowing what I want. Now… I know I want him. Not a crown, not a title, just the man. But… I’m realistic. I’m still a bastard, unfit for him. He is the only current heir of House Targaryen, and will need to secure a good marriage, one that helps his aunt and brother keep their throne.

“But I… I just wish there was a way I could have him. I don’t care about being royalty. I just want him. But there’s no way I can shield myself from ruin just giving myself freely. I’m not stupid. I don’t want to use him, but I can’t just lose myself. Men are fickle. He may truly love me passionately today, but tomorrow? A year from now? What happens when marriage and heirs come calling? He’s an honorable man, raised as a bastard. He would not want to be unfaithful to his wife. Or subject any child to dishonor. So what happens when he must marry? Or if I conceive? He will do his duty for the common good, I know that. And I know I don’t fit into that.

“So what becomes of me after? Shipped off to the Silent Sisters? Publicly ruined and exiled from noble society? Married off to the first willing stranger and forgotten? I doubt my father will be too willing to support me much once I’m no longer in the Prince’s bed, especially if he has designs on us marrying. I wish I could just have him, but I know that such a thing is impossible without ending up his whore. Perhaps it’s selfish, but I don’t want that to happen to me. I can’t let it happen.”

The tears that fell were real. Despite all she knew, despite all that was planned, she still had fears. What if she wasn’t believed? What if she was held responsible for Petyr’s crimes? What if her reputation was permanently soiled? What if she was shipped off North? What if she wasn’t given the protection Jon had promised? And even if she was, where was she to go from there? There’d be many who would suspect her of being Jon’s mistress regardless of what came to light, and no doubt her actions would gain her some enemies. She was adrift. And worst, she’d already lost her heart.

“Oh, Sweetling…” Myranda floated toward her and embraced her. “You’re a smart girl. You might have lost your heart, but you haven’t lost your head. Keeping that is the most important thing.”

A relief, even if the assurances were based on misinformation. “Thank you.”

Her friend pulled away then. “My advice? Get some property off of him.”

“What?” Sansa stared at her friend.

“Get some property off of him, and make friends with the queen. You become close to her, you become closer to the true power in the realm, and make it more sympathetic to you. Even if you’re never considered as a bride, you won’t be so easily forgotten. Make the right friends--- you’re good at that. And use that to get something of your own.” Myranda sighed. “Ladies like me, even we technically have nothing of our own. My husband, if he wished, could one day just decide to lock me away until I died so he could have a new wife. My father would fight him, but there are ways around that. In the end, I’m not really assured of anything. But… if you were to get something, something of your own. A castle, some land, income… You’d have somewhere to go upon being cast aside. A home and wealth of your own. To live out your days of comfort in, or to make for a nice fat dowry to whatever your pick of husbands.”

“My father would still officially be my guardian.”

“Not if you’re granted a branch House of your own. Like I said, get something that truly belongs to you, and no one else. If Prince Jon is truly honorable, and truly cares for you, he would not hesitate to give you something to keep you safe. Especially if, as I said, you make the right friends.” Myranda reached out and stroked a lock of Alayne’s hair. “Don’t give yourself away for free, and don’t allow your father to take all of your wages. And don’t let your prince and father leave you with nothing.”

Alayne considered this. It made a great deal of sense. “Is that what you would do?”

“Yes. And I’d have my first property printed, signed, witnessed, and sworn to me before letting the royal prick anywhere near my cunny.”

Alayne put a hand to her mouth, then blushed. “I think that would quickly alienate our prince, if I offered him nothing and made demands first.”

“Oh, don’t offer him nothing. Just offer him tastes. And I mean more than kisses and favors. Grant him liberties in steps until he’s begging to finally come into your castle. Then inform him that you need to be given a castle for him to come into, and you have none. Give him the tears as well, confide in him. He’ll insist that you have nothing to fear, of course. But don’t fall for his assurances. Make him prove he means what he says. Make sure he knows you’re not stupid. Even promise to turn the property he gives you into a little love nest for the two of you to get away from it all--- such a promise will give him more incentive to increase your income as well. Play on his honor, his guilt, his lust. Promise him the world, but not without conditions. In the end, he’ll probably respect you more for it. Especially if an when the time comes for him to take a bride and you are in the perfect circumstances to bow out gracefully without losing everything. It’s hard for a mistress to gain her man’s respect, but if you do that, you’ll get far more out of him than you would from love alone. And I don’t just mean in terms of material.”

She stared at Randa for a long moment. “You seem to have given this a lot of thought.”

Randa snickered. “Do you think I’ve been watching the two of you without worrying about you? And, you know, I’m an imaginative girl. Before I found Ruthermont, there were times when I considered taking different paths…”

“Randa!”

“But I didn’t.” Her friend moved back again to lounge across from her. “Consider this, Alayne. If you’re to be sold, be the one doing the selling. And know what your price is. Make sure everyone knows your worth.”

Alayne mulled over these words through the entire afternoon, considering this as her maids dried and dressed her hair, as she chose a gown for dinner that evening.

The circumstances were not exactly as Myranda imagined, but the advice made sense regardless. And surely Jon would be more amenable to that than her friend expected. He’d promised her, hadn’t he? To protect her. Before any words of love were uttered, without any expectations of her bedding him. Surely, he’d see the sense in this.

Just in case, though, she wore her finest ivory silk and wove blue ribbons into her hair that evening, making herself a picture of innocence and beauty.

She’d done too good a job, surely, because near the end of the meal, Sweetrobin had the sort of outburst reminiscent of his younger days.

“I want to have Lady Alayne put me to bed! She’s _my_ friend!”

Not wishing for there to be a further scene, Alayne jumped to her feet at once. “But of course, My Lord.” She smiled and walked over to his seat, offering her his arm. “Shall we adjourn now? Just the two of us?”

He nodded, throwing a glare around the room at anyone who might try to follow them or intervene, then settling his nastiest look upon a nonplussed Jon. He took Alayne’s arm possessively. “Tell me a story of the Winged Knight again, Alayne. Like when I was little.”

They were halfway to his chambers, alone in the dimly lit corridor, when he stopped them and pulled her to face him. At thirteen, he was still small for his age, but not the weak, sickly little baby he’d once been. Spotty patches of reddish-brown fuzz decorated his chin, and his body had begun to change somewhat. But to her, he was still a little boy. Not that the look he gave her was boyish in the least.

“You have to marry me, Alayne. That prince doesn’t care about you. He doesn’t even know you.”

 _You don’t even know me._ “My Lord, we’ve discussed this. Stop it now.”

“If you don’t marry me, then you’re going to leave. Just like all of my brothers and sisters. Just like father and mother.”

That was a blow that almost sent her reeling. Robert had lost just as much as she had. And he’d witnessed so much of it firsthand. Lysa Arryn had made sure her son was never far when she suffered one of her miscarriages or stillbirths. Robert had told her about it over the years. Sometimes, with the stillbirths, his mother had shown him the corpses, given them names, and even had him name them. “Another lost, and you’re all I have,” she’d tell him as the remains of her womb’s efforts were taken away.

“Robert, the only thing that will get me to leave you is if you try to force me to stay.” She said, trying not to cry. “I cannot marry you.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’re my son!” She snapped. “I cannot marry my son!”

There was a long pause. Before, she’d admitted to, agreed to the idea that she was his mother. But she’d never called him her son. And now, she wondered why. Was it the difference in rank? The potential risk of voicing such a presumption? Fear of disrespecting Lysa and Jon Arryn? She couldn’t be sure. Possibly a combination of those things.

But at some point, being a mother to Robert stopped being something she claimed to simply keep him happy and quiet. It became natural. For a long time, he was, deep down, the only family she had left. The only relation she knew to be alive. And though Jon’s survival had always been at the back of her mind, she’d felt the “brother” she’d known was from another lifetime. Meanwhile, Robin was the only family she’d had since that awful day when Eddard Stark was killed.

Robin was the only person who seemed to love her unconditionally, to love her for more than what she looked like. The one person who needed her, rather than wanted her.

Before she knew it, he was hugging her. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I love you, Alayne. I wouldn’t--- I want to be your son. I just want to keep you safe. And when I see you with him…”

Sansa pulled away and took Robert’s small hand in hers. “We should talk about that in your chambers.”

She helped him undress for the first time in over a year, as a mother would. And tucked him into his great bed with the hawk-stitched aqua silk hangings. Amidst the expanse of the Lord of the Vale’s bed, he seemed more a child than ever.

“Now listen, whatever happens between the prince and I… I will not leave you, understand? If I were to go to court---“

“---No!”

She held up a hand for silence. “ _If I were to go to court,_ I do not intend to leave you behind here. How am I to be protected amidst  those awful people, if I don’t have my Lord with me, after all? I want you to come with me. The Defender of the Vale, after all, must know something of the royal family and court life outside of here. You’re one of the king and queen’s most important vassals, and you have to learn of them, and how their home works, for the sake of your own lands and people. You will not be able to do much to advance your home’s interests if you never learn to work with the royal family, will you?”

Robin shook his head slowly.

“And, after the confusion following your father’s death, I think at the very least, it would be good to have you formally invested with your rightful title of Warden of the East, don’t you?”

That got a nod and sparkle to his eyes. “That’s right! Stupid, fat old king Robert gave that title to _The Kingslayer_ when my father died! It’s supposed to be _mine!”_

“Precisely.” She smiled. “You are almost of age, and growing strong. It is time you left the Vale, took your rights, saw the kingdom, and prepared yourself to rule. And I intend to see that happen.”

“Is that why you’re spending so much time with the prince?” Robin asked. “For me?”

“For you, for my father, for me. For lots of reasons.” Alayne stroked his face. “You know how the Targaryens originally fell, right?”

“The prince Rhaegar stole Lady Lyanna, and his father killed Lord Stark and his heir.”

“And a great alliance between a number of great houses rose up against King Aerys in rebellion. Do you remember what those Houses were?”

“Of course. Baratheon, Stark, Tully, and Arryn.”

“And you are not only an Arryn, but a Tully. And the House that those Houses brought down is now back in power. So you see, it’s very important for everyone, especially everyone in the Vale, if we become friends with this new generation of Targaryens.”

Sweetrobin’s face fell. “I don’t think that prince wants to be my friend. He wants you, and he doesn’t want to be your friend. I’m nearly a man grown now, I know these things.”

 _You don’t know half of it._ But she smiled sadly. “Regardless of who I am, I can help you all become friends. I want that more than anything. So, please, My Lord, try to be kinder to Prince Jon. I’m a bastard girl, I don’t get to make the same choices regular ladies do. So please don’t make my efforts all for naught.”

Robert’s face darkened. “If he makes you do anything, I’ll kill him.”

“He will not. I will kill him first if it comes to that.” Sansa smiled. “Sweetrobin, he’s not a bad man. He’s a good man. Very kind, and gentle, and strong. Like another man in my life,” she winked at him, “I like him very much. And I want you two to be friends. And I want us to go to court together and protect each other. Alright?”

He nodded. “Alright.”

“So you’ll help me?”

Another nod. “Yes. But you have to promise me, if he does anything bad, you will tell me.”

Alayne put a hand to her heart. “On my mother’s grave, I promise.”

“Good. I’ll help and protect you then, Alayne.” He yawned then. She took this opportunity to kiss him on the forehead and quietly withdraw from the chamber.

Only to come face to face with her father. She froze. How much had he heard?

His green eyes were slightly bloodshot, a sight she’d grown used to. His mouth was a firm line. “That was clever of you. Robert cooperating should make things much easier. Before you even get to court, you’ll have proven you have more to offer the Targaryens than a warm bed. They’ll like that.”

“Am I permitted to claim my achievement, or should I give the credit to you?” She asked him, turning and holding out her arm to urge him along. He took it reluctantly, threading his fingers with hers, pulling her close, bowing his head and whispering. The scent of ale and mint came from his sly lips.

“That’s a good question. Do we want the royal couple to think you a fool? There’s some value in that, having them underestimate you. They’d likely be less resistant to your relationship with the prince that way. Have all the focus and concern be on the scheming father, guiding his pretty, empty-headed, puppet of a daughter.”

 _You mean, the way you’d like to think things are._ “But then there is the queen. I think my position would be more secure if I were to make a friend of her. And she is not the sort to suffer fools.”

“I agree gaining another royal ally couldn’t hurt. But there’s always the king. I’m sure his appetites match his rank.”

Alayne wanted to scream. Her stomach turned. _Has he no shame?_ But she tried to keep her tone neutral. “No, that is too risky. If I betray the prince, I could lose everything. I’d lose him, and make an enemy of the queen. And I doubt the king will feel compelled to keep me in the face of his wife and brother’s anger. No, making a friend of Daenerys is the better option. With you there, they’re going to know there are wits and ambition behind me, whether those wits are my own or not. And even now, I’m not known as an utter fool. If I act it when I get to court, it’ll provoke suspicion. I’ve not pretended to be stupid around the prince, he’ll notice a change in my behavior if my head suddenly seems empty.”

“Do you think he’d notice or care?”

“Yes.” She replied firmly. “Acting a fool carries far more risk with almost no gains. If I am to do this, I will not be written off as some empty-headed whore. I can at least be allowed some dignity.”

“My girl is proud.” He said this with a strange mix of affection and irritation. “Your prince must be very impressed with your wits indeed.”

“He is.” Alayne said, carefully steering them down the hall towards the Maiden’s tower, rather than the hall to his chambers.

“What else has he been impressed with?”

“My beauty, my courtesies, my kindness, my knowledge of the Vale, Gulltown in particular. And my virtue.”

“So, nothing else? He’s not tried to sample anything more?”

Alayne sighed. He’d been trying to get answers about this out of her from the beginning. He’d been like this with all of her suitors, insisting on knowing every touch, every kiss, every detail. She’d held him at bay when it came to Jon. She felt it was private, intimate. But Baelish’s patience wouldn’t last forever, and she had to give him something.

“He’s stolen a kiss or two. He claims he loves me.”

“Where has he kissed you?”

“The hand, the cheek, the lips.”

“Has he used his tongue?”

“No!” A lie.

“And he hasn’t kissed you anywhere else? Your neck, your hair, your bosom? He hasn’t tried to press you against him, pull down your bodice, lift your skirts?”

“No! He is the soul of courtesy!” Not a lie. They’d pressed against one another before, but she was always the one who initiated it.

“And he hasn’t tried to get you to touch or kiss him anywhere? Or presented any part of himself to you?”

“Gods, no! I’m telling you, Father, he has been a perfect gentleman!”

“If he did, how would you react?”

“I’d tell him to stop. And if he continued, I’d cry and recite a prayer to the Maiden or the Mother.”

“That might not work on him. He’s a Northerner, worships those savage tree gods.”

 _I’m a Northerner who worships those savage tree gods._ She thought. But she did not dare to say such a thing. “My tears should be enough.”

“Are you sure? Some men find them thrilling.”

 _Yes, I’m sure you do._ “He is not that sort of man,” she snapped, feeling more ill by the second.

Catching her tone of voice, Petyr seized her hand tightly and twisted it painfully, forcing her to look into his eyes. “Do not think you can rebuff me, Daughter. You are to do your duty. I do hope you haven’t forgotten that, that passion has not gotten in the way of reality. I fear that this latest flirtation may have turned your head. So don’t forget: no matter how far you may rise, no matter how sweet he may seem, you are mine, and are nothing without me. Do you think your prince or anyone would think on you with any sort of kindness if they knew the truth about you?”

 _I know for a fact he would._ But Alayne bowed her head. “No, Father. I’m sorry.”

“Good.” They stopped short at the door to her chambers, and he practically threw her toward it. “Now get to bed.”

She nodded, making sure to run up to him again to kiss his cheek, like a good daughter. He turned his head to make it a kiss on the mouth, holding her to him and breathing his minty, ale-addled breath into her mouth for several seconds before pulling her away.

“And Alayne?” He asked, holding her so her face was inches from his.

“What, Father?”

He grinned. “In the end, they’re all that sort of man.”

And he pushed her towards the door again, turned on his heel, and took off.

Shaken, Sansa sped into her room, dismissing her maids and hurrying out to the balcony to get some much-needed fresh air. The whole castle seemed stifling. She leaned against the rail of the balcony, gasping for what felt like her first proper breaths in hours.

 

~_~_~_~_~_~_~

 

Jon:

Cloves, ale, mint all hung heavy in the scent of Petyr Baelish’s breath as the Regent of the Vale leaned in towards Jon. “My Alayne is a fountain of love. Love, kindness—“ his green-grey eyes flicked and his lips curled, “---and generosity. She is so very giving with those she cares for. There’s not a finer heart in the Seven Realms, I am sure.”

For the last hour, Baelish had been waxing poetic in praise of his “daughter” after the incident with Robert Arryn forced her departure. He’d ingested more than a few cups, and as the evening went on, his words, which should have been innocent, started taking on all manner of implications with the way he said them.

“You needn’t tell me,” Jon replied stonily. “During my time with the lady, I have experienced her goodness for myself.”

“I hope not all of it, My Prince. She is still my darling girl, baseborn though she may be.” But he said this with a wink, making his words sound more like an encouragement than a warning.

Jon felt his skin crawl. _She’s not baseborn and you know it, you filth._ “I assure you, neither of us have compromised our honor. The goodness of her heart and mind are all I’ve enjoyed. Your daughter has the sort of virtue that makes it easier for others.”

Baelish’s face fell slightly. “I hope she hasn’t been rude at all. It would not do for a bastard to lecture a prince on honor and virtue.”

 _Horseshit._ “I only meant that her kindness and purity are so overwhelming that it makes one wish to emulate it and fear tarnishing it.”

With that, Littlefinger sat back in his chair and laughed. “You are putting her on a bit of pedestal, My Lord. I love my daughter and know her goodness, but she is far from untouchable. She’s still a bastard girl, and while her virtue remains intact, she’s seen some tarnish before. She’s a maiden still, but a bastard maiden who spends plenty of time with the likes of Myranda Ruthermont, who is always ready with a piece of bawdy advice.”

Blood rushed to Jon’s face. From embarrassment or anger, he couldn’t be sure.

“Is that so?”

“Oh yes, so I keep her well-guarded. Women, even those of the highest virtue, cannot resist their passions on their own forever. So I protect her, as all fathers should.” Petyr smiled, “Though I’m aware I cannot do so forever. So I’ve been preparing myself to let her go when the right man arrives who can offer enough to be worthy of her. Until then, though, I keep a close eye.”

 _Could you be any more of a pimp?_ Jon tried not to glare. He got to his feet and bowed. “If you’ll excuse me, My Lord, I must retire.”

Once dismissed, Jon sped back to his room, worried. He didn’t like that conversation. It was worse than usual. And it made him feel dirty. Baelish speaking of Sansa like she was a prized heifer was bad enough. But worse was the fact that Jon knew he wasn’t much better.

Every day in the Eyrie was more torturous than the last. While he waited for a response from Sansa’s window, he paced back and forth. _What am I doing?_ It had been especially bad since he’d told her he loved her. He still wasn’t sure why he did it. She was supposed to be repulsed, not receptive.

He felt all the time like a disgusting lecher, a twisted, manipulative user. Like 90% of the men Sansa had met in her life, from what she’d told him. Conversations like the one with Baelish only made him feel worse. They were a harsh reminder of his guilt. He was using her. And he wasn’t even sure he had the same justifications he had with Ygritte.

He walked to the overstuffed chair in the opulent chamber that was afforded to him and threw himself down in it, staring at the fire. Every so often, he felt the itch to go light a couple of candles in his window. _I shouldn’t… I shouldn’t…_ But he was worried. Petyr’s words had gotten under his skin in ways beyond his personal guilt.

 _Damn it, Varys was so sure!_ The Spider was supposed to know everything. He was supposed to be right about everything. That was the whole _point_ of him!

_“I can assure you, My Prince, the reports of ‘Alayne Stone’ being your sister are false. Whoever she is, she’s a perfect little red herring. A false promise to dangle in front of ambitious would-be allies and a distraction for anyone who might try to find the true Lady Sansa. I know Petyr Baelish well enough to know that he’d never be that obvious. And, with all due respect, My Prince, my experiences knowing your little sister did not speak to me of one capable of such seductions and deception.”_

_Guess who’s wrong, Spider?!_ Jon fumed over this, not for the first time. If there was one piece of satisfaction in all of this, it would be the fact that he’d get to see Varys’s face when he told him how wrong he was.

Not that Varys’s mistake excused Jon, even remotely. There were alternative plans to seducing Alaye Stone, and Sansa’s confession and cooperation made it less necessary than ever. _So why did I tell her I’m in love with her?_

He had part of an answer: he wanted to burn off any remains of his initial attraction to “Alayne.” He’d felt sick with himself. He wanted to get her to reject him and put an end to it. But that hadn’t happened. Now, it appeared, she was a girl in love with the heroic prince who had come to save her. _I’m another Joffrey._

And the attraction didn’t go away, either. Knowing she was receptive to it made it worse. Not only was he not rejected, but now she was more openly affectionate. At this point, he’d taken dozens of walks with her on his arm, her big blue eyes staring up at him. A few times, she’d dragged him behind a tree or a bush, pressed herself against him, and seized his lips in hers. Every time she did, he drowned in her sweetly, and when it was over, he drowned in guilt instead.

 _Why couldn’t she be just a pretty face? Just a lady in a tower brushing her hair and waiting for a knight to save her?_ If she was, her loveliness would be easy to ignore. But no. In her own way, she was a fighter. She mapped out their plan, gathered evidence and information, fine-tuned their scheme. Every morning, she had something new to contribute. Jon had come to the Eyrie expecting to have to gather all the information to ensnare Baelish on his own. Instead, Sansa was serving everything he needed to him on a silver platter. It became obvious after a week that to complete his mission, he’d need her far more than she needed him.

Varys would love her. He might even fear her. But he’d definitely love her as well. She’d be the prized bird that The Spider had been trying to mold Jon into for a year. Since the war, playing the intrigue game was all Jon found he might offer. But unlike wielding a blade or commanding an army, this was decidedly not something he was trained to do. He could trudge through miles of icy, brutal terrain without flinching. In the shadows, though, he was out of sorts. Not entirely hapless, of course, he wasn’t stupid. But not disposed towards this sort of work.

He’d even balked at the plan to seduce ‘Alayne’ for information even before he’d learned the truth. The Spider proposed it along with a number of methods, but informed Jon that it would likely be the most effective.

“Do I seem like a seducer to you?” Jon had asked him. The Spider smiled and gave one of his little laughs.

“You are a tall prince with intense grey eyes, thick dark hair, and a history of saving the world from an army of monsters. You won’t need a silver tongue to loosen hers, I promise you.”

Using a woman like that, even if she was an agent of Baelish’s, did not sit right with him. Jon had gone to the Eyrie resolved to take down Baelish by any other means necessary. He’d broken a woman’s heart to achieve an objective before. He did not want to repeat the experience.

And yet, here he was. _At least when I told Ygritte I loved her, I meant it._ Jon loathed himself.

Perhaps tonight he’d tell her the truth. _But how? How do I do that without making her loathe me? Without destroying this entire operation?_ At this point, he was in so deep with her. His capture of Baelish depended on her cooperation. Jon doubted she’d be willing if she knew the truth. Not that he could blame her.

How did one tell a good, kind, brave woman, one who had been through all the things she’d been through, that the love you’d offered them was a lie meant to diminish the lust that actually existed? Sansa had been fending off grasping hands and nefarious lusts for years now. _And I’m yet another._

Sometimes, when they were alone, when she kissed him, it took all of his self control not to dive beneath her skirts or unlace his breeches.

He glanced over at the window again. _Seven Hells._

Jon was given honored chambers in the guest tower, complete with a solar, bedchamber, and balcony. Not only were his chambers high enough to give him a sweeping view of the Eyrie, but his window was viewable from the Maiden’s Tower. In particular, the top chambers of the Maiden’s Tower where Sansa resided. Their collaboration often did require secret meetings. They signaled each other using their respective locations. Two candles in the window meant one wanted to meet in the godswood. The other person lighting two candles agreed to the meeting.

Despite the fact that meeting her perhaps was not the best idea, he wanted to. Baelish’s words did trouble him. He’d expected more subtlety from the man that Varys considered such a priority. There was a desperation in his overtures, not to mention a certain sense of possessiveness. Robert Arryn was three years away from his rule and showing no signs of being on the verge of premature death. Harrold Hardyng was an emotionally crippled drunk. Baelish had been allowed to retain Harrenhal when Daenerys and Aegon took the throne, but his dominion over The Riverlands was reverted back to the reinstated Edmure Tully, along with Riverrun. Upon Robert Arryn’s sixteenth Name Day, Baelish was going to see a major loss in power.

Jon couldn’t help but smile a little at the thought. So much of Baelish’s plan hinged on Robert’s death. The stalling he’d done in regards to the Harrold Hardyng betrothal was what finally ended it.

Clearly, Baelish saw his chance with Jon. If what Sansa said was true, whatever approach he took would not afford Sansa the protection of waiting for a wedding. Baelish intended for Sansa to become his mistress.

Trying to arrange a betrothal was one thing: it depended on not only getting another party to agree to a legally binding contract, but its success rested partially upon the virtue of the bride. In Sansa’s case, that was especially true given her marriage to Tyrion. So she was protected in a sense. The success of the endeavor not only depended on others more than it did on her, but it required her to go to her marriage bed inexperienced, untouched. Something any unwanted carnal attention from Baelish would sabotage. He couldn’t afford to go too far with Sansa if he wanted to make an advantageous match for her. Too great a risk.

But this was another matter altogether.

Jon hadn’t grown up at a royal court. And he’d seen enough to know that despite the excellent education it afforded him, his upbringing in Winterfell was quite different than what one experienced at other courts.

Since he’d arrived in King’s Landing, numerous girls were flung into his path by ambitious parents and guardians. Some of it he’d expected, such as when Lord Tyrell invited both his daughter and a group of his fair nieces to a dinner with the royal family, or when Harys Swyft spoke of his niece, or when Lord Morrigen presented his dark-eyed daughter to him.

Then there was Gretta Hewett, daughter of the Lord of Oakenshield who, after briefly meeting him at a banquet, turned up in his bed that evening, seventeen years old and clearly terrified.

“Please don’t send me away!” She said through her tears. “My father will be so angry with me! I’m not expecting to make a match, I promise! And I know things!” She shuddered at that. “Please, you needn’t worry about my honor. I have none. My Lord Father merely hopes that if you enjoy me, you’ll look kindly upon our House.”

By that point at court, even he had heard of the things that occurred during the Ironborn raids of the Reach, including Oakenshield. He had her sleep in his bed and spent the night in his solar on a pile of furs, fed her breakfast while he took a private meeting with Varys in his rooms.

“None of the Hewett girls are unsoiled anymore, I am sad to say.” Varys informed him, sounding more bored than anything. “The Ironborn took Oakenshield as one of their first victories.”

“And the girls were…?”

“Oh, yes, and there was no degree of doubt allowed regarding that. The Crow’s Eye had Lady Hewett, her daughters and good-daughters serve his men naked in Oakenshield’s Banquet Hall. Tales of it spread all over the Reach. Those that were unwed at the time have since found trouble finding husbands. It’s not surprising Lord Hewett might seek to get some use out of the prettiest one. The raids have left Oakenshield considerably poorer, he has three unwed daughters, and little to offer as far as a dowry goes anymore. I doubt she will be the last, especially from the Reach set. Numerous households along the Mander and coastline lost far more than maidenheads when Euron Greyjoy set his sights on the realm. What wealth the families have is spent trying to undo all the damage that was left. The Reach is a fertile, and rich land, but less so when fields have been burned and castles and villages burnt. It leaves little left for a dowry, weakens the appeal of a girl’s family as an ally, and with a soiled virtue to boot… Well, there aren’t quite as many prospects. Families grow desperate. So, it makes sense, really. Their daughters are dishonored and soiled already, at least try to use the prettiest one to catch a rich prince’s eye so her papa can get his ear as well. Use what influence you can gain to reap rewards, and maybe you’ll be able to rebuild the villages, insure the much-needed harvest, or provide your other girls with dowries to make up for what was stolen from them. When everyone in their home is at the brink of starvation, even proud men like Lord Hewett will do what is necessary to gain whatever advantage they can.”

Jon had promptly ordered Lord and Lady Hewett to meet him in his rooms. He offered them a bag of gold for each unwed daughter, on the condition that all the girls were shown the love and respect any highborn maiden deserved. “I will be keeping a close eye on you. And if I hear a single whisper about any of them being beaten, or hearing harsh words, or being thrown into any bed but one they married into, then I will go beyond ruining you.”

Lord Hewett’s protests that he wasn’t so proud and presumptuous as to expect that Jon make Gretta a princess, that he just wanted to offer his prince the comfort of a bed-warmer, were not received well.

As Varys predicted, they were far from the last. It got to the point where Jon made a point of researching which families had their homes raided, sacked, or otherwise attacked, or were from areas that had been hit hardest by the war. If he was introduced to a lord with a name on his list (and his lovely daughter/sister), he made a point of taking the man aside and making himself and his attitudes regarding such things clear. Very clear.

Not, of course, that this put an end to this behavior altogether. While some, like Gretta Hewett and her sisters were protected, and fewer lords targeted Jon himself, the whole enterprise was not ended. His half-brother never slept alone, even though he and his royal wife kept separate chambers. Every so often, Daenerys and Aegon would have a row about it when he was too blatant with his behavior. But, as she said to Jon, “I don’t have time to remove all would-be mistresses, I have too much to do. And at the very least, it keeps him distracted from getting in my way.”

Daenerys and Jon both had long learned how to make compromises and allowances for necessary evils. So, with the queen refusing to target ambitious families and Aegon more or less free to bed whom he wished, it was open season.

His brother had varied tastes. And Jon suspected that he took a certain proud pleasure in bedding the daughters of lords who once served (or even fought for) The Usurper.

Not that Aegon was the only one. Everyone was affected by the war and the winter, but the effects were varied. While many families were utterly devastated by the combined factors of the winter, the War of the Dawn, the War of the Five Kings, and the Ironborn Raids, others suffered minimal problems. And some Houses even profited to a degree on the misfortunes of other Houses. With many formerly-powerful groups weakened and/or rendered destitute, other lords had risen to great prominence. The ones whose lands were least affected by the weather and warfare, who had possessed the foresight to stockpile plenty of supplies, or establish invaluable trade agreements with foreign suppliers and merchants. In many ways, the crown itself was dependent on them as well.

There were more than a few powerful, enterprising lords at court whose help and aid were needed by less fortunate families. Thus, potential mistresses were offered to more than just kings.

Even Daenerys herself openly wondered at times whether they resided in a royal court or a market for bedslaves. And there was little they could do since the peace and stability of her reign relied on playing nice with these men.

And unfortunately, the treatment of these young women was only one of the problems resulting from this dynamic.

It was one of the reasons destroying Baelish was so important, in fact. While Baelish had yet to publicly shop around for a mistress at court, and had had his title diminished since the Targaryens took power, his wealth had not suffered. He, perhaps more than anyone, had profited from the chaos. He’d been among the earliest to both stockpile and hoard desperately-needed food stores, raise the prices, and take advantage of other peoples’ desperation. So ruthless and careful were his tactics that the Vale began to rival the Westerlands and Reach in terms of wealth. While Baelish was no longer a sitting Lord Paramount, he had the personal wealth of three.

He was in a sort of unofficial competition with the other war profiteers, so taking him down wouldn’t destabilize the realm or incite the rest of the lords they depended on to challenge the crown. However, destroying him would send a clear message to those who’d achieved power: we can take one of the largest of you down and will not hesitate to do so, so watch yourself. You are not invulnerable.

There were countless lords who would promptly check themselves and their behavior if they saw the supposedly-untouchable Petyr Baelish annihilated by the crown.

That Baelish was a pimp was not news--- everyone knew that. But the fact that he was now willing to sell Sansa out directly was troubling. No protections in regards to contracts or purity because what he aimed for rendered such things unnecessary. And it was clear from his behavior tonight that his patience in waiting for it to happen was wearing thin.

Jon had seen so many awful things, both during and after the war. He worked on Daenerys’s behalf overseeing projects to rebuild areas of the realm and transport supplies, and did what he could to restore and enforce law and order--- things which often involved seeing horrible things done by bandits and gangs. The war had left numerous men feral, angry, wild, hateful, and capable of wielding a weapon. And many had suffered for it. But it wasn’t just in the country and the streets that the foul after-effects of the war were seen.

Many of these potential mistresses were not just thrown into a rich lord’s bed. Some were prepared for it, if the boasts Jon overheard from Aegon and numerous powerful lords were to be believed.

Daenerys did what she could. Many of the girls of the court were absorbed into her retinue and granted an income for tending to her that persuaded their families to keep their girls out of the bedchamber. But the royal purse, even with the wealth of Daenerys’s domains overseas and reparations from House Lannister and numerous revoked properties and titles, had its limits. While every girl who was presented at court wasn’t done so with the intent for them to be bedwarmers, there were still enough to make the problem difficult to contain. Most Houses still had their pride, but there were still enough desperate enough to make it a true issue.

If Baelish was growing impatient for Sansa to seduce Jon, then Jon truly feared for her. He doubted it would be very long before Littlefinger decided his “daughter” could do with a little “training” in order to secure the prince. It was clear the man lusted for her, he was probably eager for an excuse to force himself on her.

 _We need to move more quickly._ If it wasn’t already too late. Baelish departed from the Great Hall that evening quite drunk. _What if he’s heading to her rooms right now?_

Swallowing his guilt-motivated reservations, Jon hurried to his window, seizing two candles and lighting them.

Sansa resided in a grand set of chambers in the Maiden’s tower visible from the window of his apartments in the Guest Tower. On nights when one wanted to meet secretly, one of them lit two candles in their window and waited for the other to do the same. Jon lit his anxiously, then stepped out onto the balcony into the crisp, mountain night air, and watched Sansa’s apartments intently. _Please… Please…_

What would he do if she didn’t light them, though? He panicked. It could mean anything. She might simply still be seeing Robert Arryn to bed, or may have already fallen asleep. She might simply not wish to meet---- three candles in the window were a rejection, but Jon couldn’t be sure she wouldn’t just forget. What if he was already too late? What if Baelish intercepted her in the hallway and brought her to his rooms? Or was in her chambers now, trying….

Jon felt helpless.

He was about ready to strap Longclaw to his belt and charge towards the Maiden’s Tower when, to his intense relief, two small lights began flickering in the desired point in the distance. It was like catching a falling star.

Jon went back in for his cloak, boots, and dirk and set off for the godswood.

Though spring was here, the air was crisp and cool, but Jon felt no need to pull his cloak too far closed. This wasn’t legitimately cold to him, and he actively enjoyed and sought out what chill he could out of habit. But then he’d arrived at one of their night meetings cloakless a few weeks back, prompting concerned complaints from his cousin. While his first instinct was to laugh off the idea that a cold could get him after warring atop the Wall in winter, he found the genuine worry she expressed oddly touching, and wore a cloak since. He still usually left it open, more so than another person would in the same situation. But he also noticed Sansa left hers open as well, despite the fact that she sometimes wore little underneath besides a thin nightdress and bedrobe.

She was, as she always was, wrapped in one of her maids’ cloak this night, over her dinner gown as she sat at the roots of the weirwood. She rose when he came near, meeting his eyes.

Jon spoke first. “Are you alright? After you and Robert left tonight, Baelish seemed… agitated.”

Her blue eyes narrowed. “Agitated how? Did he say anything to you?”

“Nothing out of the ordinary. He used Robert’s tantrum as an excuse to wax on about your kindness, how you’re like a mother to him. At one point, later on, he was more in his cups and told me that you could be ‘generous’ to those who care for you. But the way he said it, it came off as more than just a promise. It was like he was bragging. Sansa, please, if he’s---“ He let the sentence hang. The implication was there, and it was enough. More than enough. Too much for him to say aloud at this point.

“---No.” She said firmly. “He’s tried before. Once. But I…” Then a laugh escaped her. A disturbing one. One that chilled him as much as the confession itself.

“What?!”

“I started imitating my Aunt Lysa,” she said, continuing to laugh in a rather mad fashion. “I started saying all the things she said right before he killed her, and I imitated her voice. Since then, I’ve… I’ve done things. When he gets too rough. I’ve had many of her old gowns remade for me. I've worn her perfume. I’ve been very affectionate with Robert in front of him. Sometimes, he knows what I’m doing. Sometimes, he doesn’t. But it works the same nonetheless. He’s afraid of me becoming Lysa, you see. After all he’s done to try and replace and take my mother, he cannot stand another Lysa.”

Jon swallowed. He’d never known or known much of Lysa Tylly Arryn beyond rumor, second-hand accounts, and what Sansa had told him. She was a madwoman, certainly, driven to madness by a combination of obsession, manipulation, brutal treatment at the hands of her father, exploitation at the hands of her husband, and repeated personal tragedies in the form of miscarriages and stillbirths. All of it terrified him. Especially these days, in his new identity as Jon Targaryen. He’d grown up in the Stark household, where the benchmark for childbearing standards was made by Catelyn Tully Stark, who had five healthy child prior to her thirtieth year. Vayon Poole’s wife had healthy births. Then there was Ser Rodrik, who had one surviving daughter after three wives, whom Jon never knew well. The third lady Cassel, Beth’s mother, has been a distant figure in the earliest years of his childhood. But aside from her, he’d mostly been surrounded with positive examples of childbearing. Old Nan had birthed countless children and lived into her hundreds. Then Dalla happened. Then Jon discovered the truth of his mother and his birth. And now, he was the sole heir presumptive, whose entire future depended on whether or not his petite aunt, who had already suffered a stillbirth and a miscarriage by her fifteenth name day.

He feared for Dany constantly. And at the same time, was hoping against hope that she’d conceive. It wasn’t a feeling he was proud of. Not because he didn’t want to see Dany happy or see her have a healthy child--- that was ideal. But because he now knew the very present dangers involved. He didn’t want  her to suffer. She already had a traumatic history with it. And, to use the vulgar terms he’d overheard from people who clearly didn’t think anyone was listening she “wasn’t really built for it.” She was a strong woman, but tiny. Dalla had been strong and “built for it” and had been smiling through most of her term. But still…

It seemed these days that wherever he went, he was confronted with the dangers of childbearing. Men could go home and put their weapons away when the wars were over. Women died in childbirth in winter and summer, war and peace, famine and plenty.

The thought of Dany dying was bad enough. But the spectre of Lysa Arryn and her multiple dead progeny and ensuing mania was now another influence on his psych that haunted him.

He suspected his fear over the concept of birth might be one of the reasons he’d not yet taken a wife, despite all the reasons (and pressures) in the world to do so. Aegon and Dany hadn’t forced him, but he did sometimes wonder when that patience would wear out.

The sick thing was, at this moment, Jon knew that wasn’t what Sansa meant. Baelish wasn’t worried about traumatizing her or wearing out her body with his children. He just didn’t want Sansa to become “Lysa” in the sense of being troublesome, harder to control, and, most likely, dumpy. And, most importantly, as his cousin had noted: Not Catelyn Junior.

Sansa’s laughter made more sense to him at that moment: laughing was probably the only way to keep herself from going mad.

“Gods above.” He said, breathless, “And… And do you think that’ll always keep you safe?”

“No,” she confessed, “Eventually, it won’t matter anymore. But it’s what works now. I think right now he believes that if he makes me into his pawn completely, that eventually I’ll give in. He still believes, you see, that all this time my mother truly loved him, that they were meant to be. And he thinks I’m just the younger, prettier version of her, one that he can control. That eventually, someday, I’ll succumb. His ego can’t accept anything less. But I think… Someday, at some point, he’ll grow frustrated and impatient enough to no longer care. Or will decide that he can make me back into my mother regardless of what he does. And then…” She hung her head then, marveling at her life. “Then I’ll be lucky if I manage to kill one of us before he gets what he wants.”

“Seven Hells.” There was a pause, then he held out his hand. “That day will never come, Sansa. I promise it.”

To his relief, she smiled and took his hand. “I believe it. But…”

“But what?”

Her face changed then. For half a second, it seemed like she was hesitating, But then she spoke. “I doubt my troubles will simply end with him. I’ve been living a lie for five years. Sansa Stark was wanted for kingslaying, and married to Tyrion Lannister.”

“Lord Tyrion remarried after you were declared dead. He couldn’t claim you as a wife even if he wanted to.” Jon said at once. He’d mentioned this before. And he had been intent on making that as clear as possible. She was right to take that into consideration, but he wanted to reassure her.

“Lady Lannister hasn’t given him an heir yet, though. What if he decides that he wants me instead, and makes an inquiry?”

“I will appeal to the High Septon myself. And regardless, I do not think that shall be the case. Lord Tyrion is… very attached to his wife.”

That was a loose end that had been tied up. Tyrion Lannister had wed his Meereenese bride in the temples there, but had insisted on another ceremony in the Great Sept of Baelor upon his return to Westeros, insisting on having the High Septon himself perform the affair and completely solidify his marriage in every legal sense on any and every shore. He’d even made a point of re-publishing the declaration that Sansa Stark was dead shortly before (an act which led to Jon taking the Hand of the King aside. Tyrion commissioned an exquisite and expensive statue and plaque for the crypts in Winterfell in her honor and bribed the Faith to hold a service in service of her soul and declaring her innocent of any crimes she might have been accused of soon after their talk. She was declared by the Septon himself as “Lady Sansa Stark, Maiden of Winterfell”). Lady Lannister was now expecting their first child.

No one was going to try and argue in favor of that mockery of a marriage. Tyrion wanted the wife he had and his heir. The Faith wanted to keep the crown and powerful nobles happy. And the crown and powerful nobles would want the arguably most eligible lady in the Seven Kingdoms available for the marriage market.

It would have to be publicly acknowledged, if only for the purposes of having the crown, law, and Faith publicly declare her a maiden free to wed once more. A formality and then it would be done.

But this didn’t have the calming effect he’d hoped for.

“And what comes after that? I’ll have been playing at being your mistress for a while, you’re a Targaryen. There is bound to be talk. Of us. Of what I did as Alayne Stone. There are already so many rumors. And I doubt the Northern Lords are going to welcome a potential threat to their regency. I doubt Rickon will even remember me. And what of Robert? How will he respond when he discovers I’ve been lying to him this entire time?”

“He’ll also discover that you’ve been keeping him alive. Sansa… No one with a shred of sanity will blame you for what happened. And anyone who says a word against you will have to deal with me.”

“You’re only one man, and you’re not king. My father was one of the key players in destroying House Targaryen the first time. They can’t attack Rickon or you. But me?”

“That will not happen. That is not how Daenerys and Aegon work.” But even he said this with incomplete certainty. And she seemed unimpressed regardless.

“And then what? Jon, I’m eighteen years old! Unmarried, high born, the only heir to the North left, reported to be a virgin--- though I doubt people will care much to doubt the validity of that---, the Head of my House is a young boy who has been guided and guarded by ambitious bannermen for years. Bannermen who, by the way, never thought to try and find or retrieve me. Who likely were the reason Robb never traded Jaime Lannister for Arya and I. And in the end, I will have to marry. You can’t protect me from that. If the Regents of the North don’t’ force the issue, your Aunt and brother likely will. I’m too valuable a pawn not to use. If I go home, Wyman Manderly will be my master. If I don’t, I’ll belong to the crown. And your relations would be fools not to take advantage of that to secure their hold on power. Everything I have, everything I might offer, depends upon the word and charity of someone else.”

“Daenerys and Aegon wouldn’t---“ He said, with even less conviction. He hated how much sense she made.

“—They would. They’d be stupid not to. They only just regained their family’s throne, and dragons or no dragons, they need the goodwill of their vassals. How do you think their vassals will react to them constantly rebuffing worthy suitors for the hand of the highest-born lady in their court? They don’t owe me a thing. Their duty is to keep the realm at peace, and marrying me off would be a prime opportunity to do that. It would be their duty.”

Jon took a deep breath and looked at the ground. His voice sounded hollow as he spoke. “And Rickon is too young to hold the North or resist his regents forever. The North and the Starks need alliances. The best you could hope for is that bringing Robert’s friendship might hold them off for a while, but they’ll want and need to get whatever they can out of you.”

He looked up to find her nodding. “No matter what, I’m someone’s property. I have no land, titles, or property to call my own. I’m either a Stark or a royal courtier, and I ultimately belong to someone else.”

Jon clenched his fists and his teeth. “That isn’t fair.”

“Is it not? It’s the result of me being born high. Something which has allowed me to never go hungry, to learn how to read, to be guaranteed a better life and more privileges than practically any other person in Westeros. Even as Alayne Stone, being Sansa Stark has protected me. My position in life has its advantages and disadvantages. Being a lady means I have a full belly and clothing on my back. It also means I belong to the people who provide those things.”

That just infuriated him more.

“If being a high born lady is truly fair, then how do you explain Arya? She’s gone. Being a Stark, being a lady never protected her. How do you explain what happened to Elia Martell all of those years ago? You’re given and guaranteed shit. If Baelish hadn’t gotten you out of King’s Landing, your head would have been on a pike. Your thirteen-year-old head. You can be killed for your blood, too, for pity’s sake. Being a Stark meant you were a hostage at Joffrey’s mercy, and forced to marry Tyrion. And he’d have been free to rape a child into you, and encouraged to do so. Because of your name. I was born a Targaryen. And if anyone had known that when I was a boy, I’d have been butchered. It was being a bastard that saved me. And it’s being a bastard that saved you. Blood might have saved my half-brother, but it didn’t do shit for his mother or sister. Or my mother. And Hell…” He laughed bitterly now, “Did you ever hear what happened to your friend Jeyne Poole? Pretty little Jeyne who called Arya ‘Arya Horseface’?”

There was a look on her face that made his stomach sink. Oh gods, she doesn’t know… How was he supposed to tell her this? He allowed his anger to do the work.

“She was elevated! Declared a trueborn daughter of House Stark! Heiress to Winterfell! Arya Stark! All so she could be shipped off to the Boltons to be the bride to Roose’s bastard. That… That monster… What he did to her.” Jon cupped his brow and stepped back. “She escaped and ended up trudging through the Northern winter, got frostbite so severe that her nose fell off. And you know what? Even she’ll tell you that it was worth it to get away from him. So don’t even begin to act like any of this is fair. Don’t even pretend you’re even remotely compensated for being property.”

That was when his cousin wilted like a vibrant rose dying on the spot. She practically fell to the ground. Jon ran to her at once, horrified. What had he done?

She looked up at him. “Jon… You said ‘She’ll tell you’. Not ‘She’d have told you.’ Is she still alive?”

She clutched his sleeve when she said this. He took a second to find some relief in the answer he had.

“I made sure of it. A section of the Bolton’s property was given to her. She was Ramsay’s widow. She lives in a castle in Ethering, protected, comfortable. We’ve made sure of it. But otherwise, we’ve kept things quiet. She doesn’t want the world knowing she’s still around. She wants to be left alone. No one can blame her.”

Sansa began to shake. Her grip on Jon’s arm tightened. At first, he feared for her. Then he saw the fury in her eyes, heard it in her growl, felt it in how she shook.

“It was him…” She hissed. “It was him, Jon. It was Littlefinger. I remember. I… I…”

“Baelish is responsible?” Oh gods. It wasn’t really all that surprising, really. It made sense. But this was not the way to discover it. And besides, how would Sansa know?

“That… That day…” She said, hardly able to keep still. “That day Cersei and her bloody council brought me in… All of them standing over me… I asked… I asked if Vayon Poole was alright. Jeyne had been crying in my room for days. And they… They… They said that she shouldn’t be around upsetting me. I told them… I told them that Jeyne was a good girl and hadn’t done anything wrong, that she deserved to go home. Cersei and Petyr promised to take care of her. He promised that he’d take her… Take her somewhere outside of the city. When I returned, she was gone. He…”

She shook for a few minutes more, closing her eyes, breathing in deep, angry pants. Then her eyes snapped open and she jumped to her feet so quickly it nearly sent him stumbling back. And Jon knew he had to do something.

Instinct took over. He’d seen men on the battlefield like this, even men post-battle. Finally losing their resolve over something--- a lost friend, a lost limb, news from home or the front lines--- and immediately deciding that, against all logic, to just take off and run straight into the fields alone to rampage and cut down every enemy in sight. Nothing else mattered to them. It wasn’t about making progress in the war, or justice, or strength, or glory. It was about white hot rage, wanting one’s only fate to be cutting down every person or thing who had harmed them or their loved ones, and die doing it (either by necessity, or out of preference). Life didn’t matter anymore. The war didn’t matter anymore. Just death. He’s seen men with missing limbs charge from their beds, mad with rage, falling to the ground at once because they’d forgotten the leg they no longer had, trying to crawl out of the tent, reaching for whatever sharp object they could get their hands on, swearing to be out there on the frozen battle ground, in enemy camps, taking whatever they can.

Broken or just bruised, those men had to be restrained. Another corpse meant another wight, and one less soldier. Every person living was needed. But that was forgotten by many a soldier who had learned their best friend was now another body on a pyre.

Jon saw that look now, in Sansa’s eyes. He knew to some, it would seem odd. Arya had been lost long ago, after all. But it wasn’t necessarily about how close someone was to you. It was about limits. Baelish, personally, probably wasn’t responsible for whatever happened to Arya. But he was with Jeyne. And this, it seemed, was finally Sansa’s limit. She wasn’t just feeling Jeyne. She was now putting the blood of everyone she’d ever lost, everything she’d lost, every indignity and pain she’d suffered, at Baelish’s feet. And all she could do now was get rid of someone who’d hurt her, or die trying.

She didn’t want to live in a world with Baelish in it. Just like so many soldiers didn’t want to live in a world with wights and Others. Hence, these outbursts. One way or another, they weren’t going to live in a world with the enemy. And that was all that mattered at the moment.

Jon knew this feeling. He knew it well. He’d died for it once. When all the suffering he and everyone he cared about was all Ramsay Bolton’s fault, and that one of them had to die.

As it turned out, they both had. Jon got better. And he was the only one who could say that. There wasn’t going to be a Red Witch around for Sansa.

So, despite all his reservations about doing this very thing, he grabbed her and restrained her. He held her tighter than he’d held anything. He’d not held Arya this tight, and she was gone. He’d not held Bran or Robb this tight, and they were gone. He’d not held Ygritte this tight, and she was gone.

“Let me go! I have to! He has to die!”

“He does, Sansa! He does! But it can’t happen this way! Please! You’ll only end up getting yourself killed, and he’ll never be exposed!” Please, Sansa. Out of anyone, you should be the one to listen!

“I don’t care anymore! It has to end!”

He tightened his grip on her and yanked her down, forcing her to the ground. Please. She fought him, trying to hit him. He straddled her and held her hands down, but his harshest restraint was the desperate look he gave her. That seemed to catch her attention. He spoke as softly as he could. “Listen to me. If he’s not exposed, then his death won’t help any of the people he’s hurt! We need him alive. We need to know all of the other things he’s done. So we can find people, so we can help him. If he dies, none of those people will get help. His businesses, his holdings… the brothels, the ships, the property… It’ll just fall into the hands of the next ruthless monster. But if we find them, we can help them. You kill him now, you’re also killing the chance for countless people to be rescued. Do you want that? Do you want other children like Jeyne to never, ever be found?”

And she wilted again. His grip, which had been loosening as he spoke, now disappeared altogether. He rose, his hands burning. She curled up, like a babe in the womb, face soaked with tears.

Jon found himself, once again, pulling her to him, but this time in an embrace. She sobbed into his chest for several minutes. Jon held back tears of his own. This was supposed to be over.

He remembered the Mummer’s lessons Varys had given him then. He forced himself to act opposite of his feelings. He was someone else. I’m not Jon Snow. I’m the heroic dragon prince. And facing down the Night’s King and winning the war of the Dawn made me think everything is going to work out fine. I’m the lie now. “Hey. It’s going to be alright. Jeyne lived. And other girls like her will, too. We’ll take him down, I promise. I didn’t---- I don’t think any less of you. It’s not your fault.”

Blue eyes met his, but they were bloodshot. Her voice was miserable.

“Jon… I went to Cersei. When Father wanted to get us out of King’s Landing. I went and told her. I didn’t want my betrothal to Joffrey broken. So I went and told her that Father was planning to take us away. It’s all my fault.”

Then she looked down again, as if afraid to face him. That just infuriated him.

“Seven Hells… Sansa…”

“I’m so sorry.” She told the folds of his cloak. “I’d do anything, anything to go back and undo what I did! It’s all my fault!”

Jon already knew this. Varys and his little birds had supplied him with more information on what happened in King’s Landing during Eddard Stark’s time there than perhaps was necessary from a practical standpoint. But Jon sometimes suspected that there was some sentimentality left in the spymaster. Jon had poured over the information he’d gotten for days. A lot of anger, frustration, misery, and blame had resulted, but none of it aimed at Sansa. And the idea that she would blame herself not only enraged him from a justice standpoint, but also because it reminded him of some very uncomfortable and ugly feelings that he’d unwillingly acquired towards the man he’d once idolized.

He cupped her chin and told her to look at him. She did.

“Don’t ever say that again. None of that would have mattered if Cersei and Jaime Lannister hadn’t committed incest, attacked Bran, or killed Robert. None of that would have happened if Littlefinger hadn’t killed Jon Arryn or lied to your parents. None of that would have happened if Joffrey hadn’t sent an assassin after Bran. None of that would have happened if your mother hadn’t kidnapped Tyrion. None of that would have happened…” He trailed off for a second. Sveen Hells. These were thoughts and feelings he’d wanted to lock away in a chest, bury, and lose the key to. But she had been carrying this around how long?

“…If Father had sent you girls home earlier, if he hadn’t told Cersei Lannister what he knew, if he hadn’t trusted Littlefinger, if he’d actually… Gods. You were eleven years old, Sansa. Do you honestly think Cersei didn’t have spies everywhere? That she wouldn’t have had one of them come to her telling her that Father’s household was packing everything up, that arrangements were being made? That she wouldn’t have learned what Father was doing maybe an hour after you came to her anyways? If Father hadn’t---“

He stopped himself then, and took a few deep breaths. “I’m tired of people suffering and taking the blame for what others do. You’ve already been paying for the crimes and mistakes of others long enough. You are not going to shoulder their guilt for them as well. You were a little girl.”

“A stupid---“

“Stop it. You’re not allowed to call yourself that.”

Her face softened. And for a short while, her expression was unreadable. Jon found himself stroking her hair. Believe me, please. Don’t hate yourself. Don’t blame yourself.

He’d expected either resistances and shame, or relief and acceptance. But what crept across his cousin’s delicate features was something wholly unexpected: suspicion.

“How do you know…?” She trailed off, and Jon felt a tremor within him. She cannot have possibly… No…

“Sansa? What is it?” He asked, fearing the answer.

That was when she pulled away, getting to her feet, at first staring at the ground and hugging herself in confusion. Then, finally, she met his eyes, studying him. And Jon suddenly felt like every secret he’d ever had was written on his face.

“Why did you come here?” She demanded of him, “Why? Why would the king and queen send their only heir to the most impregnable and secure castle alone to simply conduct a formality? Why not summon Robert to the Red Keep, or make the trip themselves, with the dragons? Why did they send you to do this? You’re not king. And you’re the bastard half-brother, potentially an insult to The Vale. Why risk that?”

She had this look on her face that reminded him, oddly enough, of Baelish. It frightened him.

“Sansa, I---“

“Why are you here, Jon?!”

Slowly, he got to his feet. “There’s some things you must understand…”

“Why are you here, Jon? Why did they send you? Answer me now, or I’ll scream. I swear it!”

He stepped back, trying to remember Varys’s lessons. If you can’t become a lie, become another version of the truth. “The crown wanted to know what was happening in the Vale, Sansa.”

“What happens in the Vale happens because of him!”

There was no denying that. But it was complicated. “It’s always complicated.” He could practically feel the Spider’s breath on the shell of his ear. “And other lords. And Lord Arryn. And you.”

“You noticed changes in his manner, when he usually hides them so well. You have to study him to pick up on it. I would know. And whatever happens… because of me, because of Lord Arryn, because of the other Lords and Ladies. It all goes back to him. If you were that concerned with the others, you’d be touring the Vale, visiting all the vassals. But you’ve stayed here.”

“For you!” But he could hear the weakness in his voice. It was only a half lie.

“Right. For me. The woman you thought to be Baelish’s bastard daughter until you arrived. Somehow I doubt the crown would be fine with letting you stay here for me alone if it were especially concerned with the other lords.”

Jon knew he’d been beat. He sighed. “Yes, Sansa. You’re right. But that doesn’t mean I don’t---“

“---You know so much.” Her eyes were far away now. She wasn’t listening. “You meant it, so much, when you told me it wasn’t my fault. I saw it. You wouldn’t say it like that if you didn’t know it to be true for sure. I saw it. The earnestness. The belief. You said it with more conviction and honesty than anything else I’ve heard you say---“

Then her eyes focused. They were devastated and horrified, but squarely focused on him. “It’s funny how quickly you confessed love to a girl you called your sister once. You’d think a tortured expression of forbidden love would by the most heartfelt thing I’ve heard you say. But whatever sincerity was there pales in comparison to what you said to me tonight when you held me.”

His mouth went dry. He felt undone. The betrayal, the pain in her eyes was almost too much to take. But he still looked. He owed her that.

A moment later, she was gone.

Jon had suspected for a while that he’d hardened his heart against anything the day he was brought back. But now he knew that wasn’t true. Glass was hard, after all. And it shattered. That hardened heart of his now did the same.

 


	3. Chapter Three: Lady

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More plans are made.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Brianna for beta-ing!

Chapter Three: Lady

Jon:

“Forgive my deception.”

Jon did a double-take. Wasn’t that his line? He looked at Sansa closely. She sat in the chair across from him, sewing in her lap. She looked calm in the firelight, when he’d expected tears. He’d been dreading this meeting all day.

“Your deception, my lady?”

“For telling you I was in love with you. I believed it would go better for me if I told you what I thought you wanted to hear. Forgive my presumption, thinking your declaration was sincere. It’s just that I suppose I have grown a tad too used to having these encounters with men. Even ones who believe me a bastard.” She laughed then. “How horrified you must have been! To hear your sister say such a thing!”

Her tone was sweetness, but her words were poison. Jon stiffened. Every syllable was like a blade in the gut, and he would know. I am now one among many. “My Lady, you could never horrify me. Or offend me. I… I was pleased to hear you return my affections.”

“You mean your deception? Yes, we do seem to work well together, don’t we? Even when we’re lying to one another! Imagine what a team we’d make if we were sincere!” She looked straight at him then, her smile almost mocking. “The good news is, now that we’ve cleared the air of all of that romantic nonsense, we may in fact do that! Shall we discuss how we will dispose of the mockingbird? I feel that now that we’ve cleared the air, I can better assist you.”

Jon took a deep breath. He was reading her face. Protesting, attempts at explanation would do no good. Perhaps, later on, he might explain something… anything. But now was not that time. “I wish to entrap him, as you may have guessed. One of the primary problems with ascertaining his crimes is that most were committed during Robert’s time. He could claim that he was acting to subvert the regime of the usurper. Not to mention, so many of the witnesses from that time are either dead or otherwise compromised. You, of course, would be key in fixing this issue. But it would be better if we could catch him doing something now.”

Sansa pursed her lips. “The Tyrells are still active at court, correct?”

Jon sighed. “Seeking to overcome the stain of their previous alliances, yes. We need the bounty of the Reach. We need their wealth. Unfortunately, the tensions between them and the Martells have continued.”

“They might be of use. I am certain that they collaborated with Littlefinger in assassinating Joffrey.”

Jon’s eyes widened. “That’s a very serious accusation.”

Sansa licked her lips. “Margaery and Joffrey drank from the same cup. At one point during the wedding reception, Olenna Tyrell approached me and fiddled with my hair. The poison was transported through a net of black amethysts I wore.”

“There’s no way of proving it, though. Unless Littlefinger has something up his sleeves, if so, the Tyrells are unlikely to be forthcoming.” Jon cleared his throat. “But… if they were to be exposed for something else. There is no doubt in any of our minds that they’ve been plotting something against the Martells.”

There was a long pause. Sansa stared into the fire. “How do the Martells feel about you? Regarding Elia, and everything?”

“Prince Doran’s heir has formally acknowledged me as prince,” Jon replied, thinking on the Princess Arianne. She was a common and influential figure at court, close with the king and queen alike. The most uncomfortable things had ever gotten with her was whenever Aegon flirted with her at banquets, or whenever she voiced objections to any attempts at dragon breeding. Despite her blood connections with Aegon, she did not exactly let people forget the things her family had suffered. A memorial to Elia Martell had been built in the Red Keep, and she did not exactly let her brother Quentyn be forgotten. “They are cordial.”

“And the Tyrells?”

“The Tyrells pursue me.”

Sansa smiled. “I remember the feud between the Tyrells and Martells. It has roots in all the old, Dornish conflicts, but the event they always go on about is when Willas Tyrell’s leg was crushed. He faced Prince Oberyn in a tourney, you see, was unhorsed, and his steed fell atop him. The Tyrells never forgave that. They caused all manner of trouble when Prince Oberyn and his paramour attended the royal wedding. Tyrion was at his wit’s end. I can’t imagine things have improved much in the intervening years. I suggest you throw Petyr into the mix.”

Jon considered this. Yes, such a thing could be arranged easily. “That could be arranged, especially if we have someone monitoring his activities.”

“I would be doing so at a very great risk to myself.” Sansa took a deep breath. “I would expect to be compensated.”

This came as a surprise, and Jon had no idea why. Of course. That wasn’t a horrifying demand. “What?”

“I’d like property of my own, in my own name. A title, land, income. Independence. Not Harrenhal, it’s cursed and is a glorified ruin besides. But somewhere safe, something sizable, profitable. So that I would not be bound to obey the orders of any head of House.”

Jon took a deep breath. “I might be able to arrange such a thing. I would have to clear this with the crown, of course.”

“Of course.” She re-threaded her needle. “But I do expect to have the proper insurance in hand before I testify or take any public action. And I expect to be consulted throughout this, and be given means to protect myself. Not just against him, but against you, as well.”

It was like talking to one of the more ambitious of Varys’s agents. She seemed a stranger to him. I made her a stranger. “Sansa, I do have a condition.”

He hated saying that. But it was necessary. His cousin froze. “What?” She asked, her tone suddenly less calm.

It’s for your protection. Please understand. “In order to keep you safe, I would…” He licked his lips. “I would have you submit to a betrothal.”

She rose at once. “What?! I will not risk my life just to be bartered away!”

“I know! It won’t come to anything, I swear! I just---” He took a deep breath, “If we’re to entrap Littlefinger, if you are to be protected, it makes more sense if I am secretly betrothed to Alayne Stone.”

Another pause. She sat down again. “When?”

“As soon as possible.”

“And you expect him to believe that a prince would marry his bastard daughter so quickly?”

Jon took a deep breath. He’d been considering this very thing. But he had to do this. As his bride, ‘Alayne’ could be protected. He owed it to her. “With your help, and the right proposal… Then yes, yes I could.”

“Petyr Baelish is not easily duped, Jon. He has not survived this long by being a fool.”

“He’s thrived on subterfuge. I intend to employ it. I just need the right guidance on how to employ it.” Please, Sansa.

She took another deep breath. “Fine. But you’ll have to listen to every word I say. And I want a list of available fiefdoms by tomorrow night.”

~_~_~_~_~_~_~

The Eyrie hosted a plethora of blooming, mountain spring flowers in its gardens, and when Jon Targaryen had walked among them before, he’d found himself drawn to appreciating every single one. He’d enjoyed their beauty and fragrance, took the time to do so, far more than he’d ever done back in King’s Landing. It was hard to stop and smell the roses when you could hear whispers on the other side of the hedge.  
  
But today, none of the blossoms had the same appeal. Jon attributed this to both the current state of affairs regarding his usual garden companion, and the unsavoriness of the one he had now.  
  
Petyr Baelish’s grey-green eyes were fixed upon Jon, penetrating, glinting. Jon wondered how clear his gaze was. Did the man see right through him, or did he merely want Jon to think so? Did he fool himself, drunk on his own cleverness and self-regard? Regardless, the man wasn’t the sort you relaxed around, and he knew it.  
  
Jon’s skin crawled, but he affected only a hint of nerves. He wanted to play the role of the nervous young suitor. He needed to. “My Lord, I must say, I have greatly enjoyed my time here, your hospitality and kindness are unrivaled. Indeed, such has been my experience here that I don’t wish to depart the Eyrie.”  
  
“The Eyrie? Or my little sapphire?”  
  
Another one? Jon had noticed this about Baelish: he liked inflating and promoting whatever favorable stories and legends he could. He loved spreading and promoting any and every tale of his “struggle” to rise the ranks of nobility, his brilliance with coin, his ingenuity in rising in the ranks of power, his invaluable genius that the crown once so depended on, his “tragic romance” with Lysa Tully, his devotion to the downtrodden, including his poor, sickly, orphaned stepson and his sweet bastard daughter.  
  
By extension, Sansa, or rather, “Alayne” had her own legend emphasized and celebrated and promoted as much as possible. To hear it told, she was the loveliest maiden in all the realm, her beauty rivaling even that of the Dragon Queen. She was the Maiden made flesh, her maddening beauty matched only by her purity and kindness (the purity part was of course subject to rumor, the kindness less so). So beautiful, elegant, sweet, pure and perfect was Lord Baelish’s daughter that she rose beyond her base birth to be the most precious and jealously guarded treasure that her prodigiously-wealthy father possessed, her value exalted even by the highest lords who beheld her.  
  
One of the ways her image was exalted was by the little nicknames Baelish had floating around. The Maiden of House Baelish, The Bluebird of Baelish, Alayne Jewel, Littleflower, etc. Now it seemed “Sapphire” was going to be one. Jon carefully considered it. A take off on Stone, expanding it beyond Jewel and specifying it as a precious gem, exalting her worth and rarity, reference as a closely guarded treasure, blue for her eyes… “The Sapphire of Baelish” sounded like some great prestige gem, like The Emerald of Hightower or the Lost Rubies of Valyria.  
  
This would be the latest, it seemed. But Jon supposed it was a good sign: it meant he wanted to talk business. Jon swallowed. It was time.  
  
He hesitated and timidly met Baelish’s eyes. The man grinned.  
  
“You have me down pat, Lord Baelish,” replied Jon, “Of course, the Eyrie’s beauty is famed and that fame is well-deserved, but---“  
  
“An isolated castle in the clouds holds little weight against the appeal of a lovely maiden.” Baelish’s eyes glittered. “She has conducted herself with all proper decorum and honor, of course?”  
  
Jon narrowed his eyes. “Aye. There is not a valid complaint to be made against your daughter. She has been nothing less than an ideal hostess. But she has gone above and beyond in kindness, generosity, and wit. I am in awe of her of her virtues.”  
  
“I hope that awe of yours will not cause any problems, My Lord. I am a fair, rational man, but my daughter is my greatest treasure. I would not have her dishonored and abandoned. Not without consequences.”  
  
“I assure you, I have no such intentions on Lady Alayne. I would never hurt her.” A lie. But Jon doubted Baelish would care as long as it didn’t get in the way of his own ambitions. “And indeed, I was hoping we might discuss her, and her affairs.”  
  
The man’s lip curled. Jon saw the anticipation as he said, “Oh?”  
  
It was with the greatest pleasure that Jon replied. “Yes. First of all, I wished to discuss the possibility of legitimizing her.”  
  
Baelish stopped in his tracks. Color drained from his face. “L-legitimize her?”  
  
“Yes. In fact---“ Jon paused to pick a lily-blossom from a nearby hedge, “I confess, this matter is of some interest of their Graces, and part of the reason I’m here.”  
  
“Their Graces are interested in Alayne?”  
  
“They’re interested in the fates of Harrenhal, The Fingers, and your family name,” replied Jon, “I hope you will not take offense at this, Lord Baelish, but you are…. In your fifth decade, are you not? Lysa Arryn was your only wife, and Alayne your only child.”  
  
The cold grimace that stretched across his face was almost delicious. “Indeed, but I am still fairly young, fairly… hearty.”  
  
“Oh, certainly, certainly!” Jon said, giving Baelish a brotherly pat on the back, “But still, these are still uncertain times, and after all this time, it cannot hurt to have a safeguard. My aunt and brother want to turn over a new leaf, and that means keeping Harrenhal attached to a consistent family line. Even legitimized, Alayne is still a girl. You have all the time in the world to have sons to replace her. But it doesn’t hurt to have a spare heir just in case. Especially when the lady is already so respected and loved. And when you have a son, no matter. She’ll be of more value to you legitimized, with a legal claim and true family name attached to her. Indeed, she’d likely be the most valuable marriage prize in Westeros! You simply cannot lose.”  
  
Baelish turned to face the prince, his face not too far from Jon’s. “…I see the logic behind it. Though I do wonder just how valuable she’d be as a marriage prize. Even legitimized, bastard born is bastard born, and my House is the youngest in Westeros. One can only expect a certain level of suitor to seek her, surely?”  
  
“Oh, I think with a proper name and dowry behind her, Lady Alayne could ensnare even the highest of potential husbands, provided her affairs were properly seen to.”  
  
His curled lip became an outright grin, visible teeth and all. “My Prince, far be it for me to assume, but one might infer from your words that you’ve developed a very great affection for my daughter indeed. One might even go so far as to call it outright attachment.”  
  
“I have a great affection and regard for your daughter, it is true. I have a great appreciation for her…. And everything she might offer.” Now Jon stopped and turned to face Baelish head on. “Old your name might not be, but it is known well. Even if Alayne isn’t a Tyrell, Hightower, Blackwood, or Arryn, she still carries with her a potentially very advantageous alliance. Would I be wrong in making that assumption?”  
  
“You would not.”  
  
“Indeed, I believe that together, your daughter and I could go very, very far.”  
  
Another one of Varys’s plans. Make him think you as duplicitous as him, as ambitious. Invite him in, promise him power, offer him everything Daenerys and Aegon have denied him.

Baelish began walking again, looking ahead, “Well, far enough, I suppose. You are heir presumptive at the moment. Tell me, have your royal relatives promised you any properties of your own?”  
  
Jon smiled. “That is not something I am free to disclose at the moment, Lord Baelish. Let’s just say that my prospects make it imperative that I look to the future, attain the proper friends, and insure my prospects.”  
  
“Indeed. If I may say so, My Prince, I find the idea of you prospering very appealing. Having a proper Westerosi take true power is more necessary than ever, with our current foreign monarchs.”  
  
Said the grandson of a Braavosi sell-sword. But Jon merely smiled.  
  
“Indeed. You are not the only one to feel this way. And I think a proper, humble, lovely daughter of the Vale and the Riverlands alike makes for a fine companion for a Westerosi leader. If she were to charm the royal court and nation at large, she’d prove herself a key asset to my… future. If the royal court were to learn of her loveliness firsthand, they will learn to only count her birth as the source of proper, womanly humility. She could very well entrance our vassals, bastard or no.”  
  
“Legitimized Bastard or no, the outcome is even more certain.” Littlefinger began to stroke his beard. “Still, I’m surprised, My Prince, that you would involve us in how you conduct your affairs. I wouldn’t have thought us natural allies.”  
  
“I am a leader, Lord Baelish. I can lead men in battle against unfathomable odds and emerge the victor. Some have called me a god. I know how to inspire men, protect my own, and conduct most administrative tasks. But I admit, my skills in matters such as intrigue and diplomacy, particularly in times of peace, leave something to be desired. With that… Spider… slithering around the Red Keep, I could use an ally who is well-versed in such matters. And you are famously one of the best.”  
  
“Oh, really, my reputation for---“  
  
Jon held up a hand and stopped Littlefinger with a palm to the chest. “Don’t lie to me, my lord. Despite my resemblance to him, I am not Eddard Stark. Just because I seek you as a partner doesn’t mean I’m ignorant, doesn’t mean I trust you. You don’t go from being the most minor lord in Westeros to Regent Paramount of two of the Seven Realms in a matter of years without people growing wise to what you are. So let me make this clear: if you want to do anything aside from retire to Harrenhal to die once Robert Arryn is of age, or be brutally murdered, you will be faithful and honest with me, understood? You’re no longer Lord of the Riverlands, and before long you won’t be Lord Protector of the Vale anymore, either. Work with me, put your talents towards my best interests, and none of this will matter. You’ll have power over all of the Seven Realms, rather than two. But I will not suffer betrayal without consequences. And I will not turn a blind eye to your activities, either. Do we understand one another?”  
  
Littlefinger’s breathing deepened. “Of course, My Prince.”  
  
“Good.” Jon lowered his hand. “Then I look forward to a most fruitful and prosperous union, My Lord. I look forward to becoming your son.”  
  
It took a couple of seconds for Littlefinger relaxed. “Indeed? And when do you think that will be?”  
  
“Oh, it won’t happen instantaneously, of course. Alayne has proven herself a lady without rival, but a lady doesn’t always mean princess. And there are many families who might be miffed at my choice. Thus, your daughter will have to ingratiate herself to not only my royal relatives, but also the court. Once she has been welcomed and accepted by our courtiers, a betrothal can be announced. As soon as possible following that, a wedding. And following that, she’ll hopefully bear me a son quickly enough. I would need a viable heir.”  
  
“Of course.”  
  
“But, as I said, Alayne must traverse the waters and prove herself capable before I can have her crowned. And the manner in which she must prove herself go beyond fertility. I have to be confidant that making her my consort is worth it.”  
  
“Certainly. And I am sure that once she has received the proper assurances, she will be most eager to prove herself to her future Lord Husband. She is a dutiful girl.”  
  
“Excellent,” replied Jon, trying to hide his nausea, “Of course, with her coming to court, you will have to come. And with you at court, The Vale requires regency. Obviously, Lord Arryn should accompany you. He is, after all, Lord Paramount of the Vale. And you’d need to leave a properly loyal man behind. Alayne mentioned to me that Nestor Royce might be ideal.”  
  
Baelish grinned further. Jon tried not to smile back. Nestor Royce was the man Littlefinger believed he’d bought. But Sansa had made it clear that this was only because Baelish underestimated the man. With Robert Arryn still in his custody, Baelish would consider any risk of losing control in the Vale rendered moot. Which, of course, would mean it would be all the easier to destabilize what power he had there once he left. Yes, Lord Robert would be away from any ambitious would-be Regents of the Vale, he’d be under the same roof as Littlefinger, but it wouldn’t be Littlefinger’s roof. The man who had drained and defrauded the royal treasury once likely wouldn’t consider this a particularly grave factor, but Belish was overconfident, and Daenerys Targaryen was no Robert Baratheon.  
  
So he’s definitely vulnerable. And he believes me, to an extent. Baelish’s reaction to Nestor Royce more or less proved it. He thinks himself more secure than he is.

“My clever girl always has the most astute suggestions. Tell me, Prince Jon, how fares the Hand of the Crown? How is his health?”  
  
“About as good as one might expect of a mutilated, deformed, drunken little imp, unfortunately.” Jon scowled and allowed Baelish to think it was directed at Tyrion, not his words. “The odious man thrives against all odds.” Jon’s stomach twisted at his words. Silently, he apologized to the Lord of Casterly Rock. But he had a part to play.  
  
“Praise be to the Gods for this blessing. I only hope he shows them enough appreciation to get them to make such vigor last.”  
  
Jon forced a sly smile. “Unfortunately, he’s not a pious man.”  
  
“Well, he’s never been known for his virtue, unfortunately.”  
  
“The regard for his honor and morals reach almost that of his stature,” quipped Jon, hating himself. His feelings towards Tyrion Lannister were nowhere near as favorable as they’d once been, but he loathed stooping to mocking the man for his height nonetheless.  
  
“As I remember it, The Imp was on good terms with The Spider.”  
  
“He still is. Which is precisely why… balance… is so needed in the Red Keep these days.”  
  
“Oh, indeed. The needs of true Westerosi men can hardly be filled if the realm is controlled by foreigners, eunuchs, and dwarves. In this time of recovery, what Westeros needs are strong, native leaders who truly know the country.”  
  
Jon nodded. “I have the honor of being Master-at-Arms of the Iron Throne at this point. I can not guarantee you a high minister post yet, but I do not think it will take long for me to gain you an advisor position before long.”  
  
“Varys might get in your way.

“Luckily my aunt trusts Varys almost as much as you do.”  
  
“And the king?”  
  
“The king, for all the careful, exacting, thorough education The Spider acquired for him, is more interested in grand shows of power and the perks and privileges of his rank than the duties of day to day governing. He’s only slightly more attentive than Robert Baratheon. He’s a bit more favorable to the eunuch, given their history. However, his experiences with Jon Connington have instilled in him a level of distrust towards even the closest of his confidantes. Furthermore, Varys challenges him, as does Lord Lannister.”  
  
Jon said this without fear. Littlefinger’s spies in the Red Keep would tell him exactly that. It was true, after all. Aegon approached his courtiers already expecting their automatic deference, and grew discouraged and sulky when he didn’t get it. Meanwhile, Daenerys forced the matter at every opportunity. Her resilience, when combined with the fear that only a mother of dragons could instill, meant that she was taken far more seriously. Aegon wasn’t a complete wastrel, but he put in only partial effort. There was one monarch that was truly taken seriously, and it wasn’t Aegon. While Varys and Tyrion were far more careful about how they handled Daenerys, they didn’t hesitate to put their king in his place.  
  
“I believe I can become a friend of your royal relatives. As I understand it, they have the highest regard for you.”  
  
“The queen holds affection for me. My brother is a bit more ambivalent, but far from hostile. He is far more partial to his Martell relatives. I just wish they felt as kindly towards me. But then… difficult history. Luckily enough, the Tyrells have shown themselves to be supportive of me.”  
  
He saw another flicker in Baelish’s eyes. Another test to see if he was lying. Jon had passed.  
  
“Oh? Despite their apparent loyalties, the Tyrells have always been an agreeable ally,” remarked Baelish, continuing to stroll along the path.

“I would hope so. Though the Martells don’t seem to think so,” Jon replied, “We fear that open warfare between the two is nigh-inevitable. Or, at least, I do. But my aunt refuses to see it. I wish someone could simply make her see. Aegon is a lost cause, too partial to his Dornish cousins. But Daenerys… Well, sometimes I fear my influence with her is still too limited.”

“Women can often be suspicious. They sometimes require a gentler word to help them see the truth.” Baelish paused again, as if hit with a bolt of inspiration. “You know, Alayne is eager to make friends of the queen as well. She idolizes her.”  
  
“She’s told me.” Jon wasn’t sure Daenerys was an exact role model for Sansa. They were very different women. But the core virtues--- strength, compassion, wisdom, perserverence--- these were admirable qualities in anyone. “And I am sure that the queen will be more than eager to accept such a well-regarded lady into her inner circle.”  
  
Baelish grinned. “Well then, it seems we have an arrangement. Of course, I would like some manner of security. For Alayne’s sake, at the very least.”  
  
“Of course. For Alayne’s sake,” replied Jon, trying not to sneer. He pretended to mull this over. “Well, obviously she would remain in the protection of your household at court. I will make sure you are honored with apartments befitting not only your rank but your needs as a father with a daughter and household. I will make sure you are well provided for, and that she in particular will have a respectable retinue to guard her virtue and reputation if you are unable to provide one yourself. I will have the approval for Alayne’s legitimization secured before we depart for court. She will arrive at The Red Keep styled as Lady Alayne of House Baelish, heir to Harrenhal and Midlor Point. I will be more than happy to contribute to her expenses so she might enjoy all the comforts and prestige of a trueborn heir to a prominent lord and eligible prospective royal consort. I assure you, Lord Baelish, despite the Tully restoration, you will be received at the Red Keep in style, with all the deference of a Lord Paramount. I will also send a letter on your behalf requesting a private audience with the king and queen for you and Alayne… perhaps dinner.”  
  
“You are generous, My Prince,” Littlefinger said in false surprise.  
  
“Oh, I am a generous man, certainly. I am as generous as I am wary, as I am intolerant of betrayal. Be advised: I do not considered being generous as something that goes hand in hand with being forgiving.”  
  
“Understood. And to make my intentions clear, I hope you will accept a gesture of goodwill on my part as well. Allow me to be your chief agent in resolving the tensions between Houses Tyrell and Martell.”  
  
Jon held up his hands. “You needn’t trouble yourself.”  
  
“Oh no, I would not want to be so indebted to you. Allow me to prove my regard to you.”  
  
He couldn’t be seen as forcing Baelish into a position of obligation. Jon sighed. “Very well. As long as it is done... respectably. And I would ask that you keep your daughter innocent of this as well.”  
  
He hoped Baelish would get the message.  
  
“Of course, my prince. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a daughter to delight. She will be thrilled.” He bowed and began backing away.  
  
“Please be discreet!”  
  
“Of course!”  
  
Jon watched as Littlefinger bowed once again, his stomach churning as he watched the man depart.  
  
~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~

Alayne:  
  
Alayne was at Robert’s desk in his solar, helping him through his lessons with Maester Coleman when the page came and informed her that her Lord Father wished to see her in his study, alone. Robert grunted with irritation, but he’d long ago learned not to protest when Lord Baelish wanted to see his daughter. Last time he had, Littlefinger had separated them, sending Alayne off to visit his keep in The Fingers as punishment.  
  
With a heavy heart, Alayne kissed her little lord on the forehead and departed, swiftly making her way down the halls.  
  
As she rounded a corner, however, she was caught at unawares by her name being whispered. Her true name.

Jon was looking out from behind a tapestry, standing in one of the private alcoves Alayne had shown him. Begrudgingly, she ducked behind the fabric and faced him.  
  
A week prior, she and Jon had ducked into this very spot, with complete, giddy enthusiasm and eager lips. But that was when she’d still been fooled and believed he loved her. Back when she trusted him.  
  
“How may I help you, My Prince?” She asked him, keeping her tone courteous and innocent, as she always did. Her back was to the very same stone walls Jon had pushed her against passionately before. Now, she wasn’t pushed, merely keeping a healthy distance.  
  
“It is done, Sansa,” he said gravely. She groaned. Time for the show. Her performance here would make or break this entirely. Carefully composing herself, she threw herself on Jon’s arm and affected a smitten look and a giggle that she maintained until they made it to the door of Littlefinger’s study.  
  
“Enter!” Her false father called out upon Jon’s bold knock.  
  
Her father spent many of his hours in Lord Jon Arryn’s old study: a high-ceilinged, sunlight chamber lined with bookshelves that overlooked the Giant’s Lance. A fire was always going in the hearth to the left of the entrance, and at the opposite end of the room were the windows overlooking the Giant’s Lance, with the old, immense Arryn oak desk positioned by the window so whoever sat at it could survey the view. Alayne entered to find her father with his back to her, sitting and frantically scribbling away on a piece of parchment. Alayne watched him curiously. She wasn’t used to seeing her father rush through a document. He was usually so careful, deliberate, calculating in his choice of every word.  
  
She waited for a moment to observe him before alerting him to their presence. Something had clearly happened. Something big.  
  
Baelish rose, a bit more swiftly and eagerly than he normally would, and turned on his heel. He looked only mildly surprised to see Jon, giving an exaggerated grin and bow. “My Prince. What an unexpected surprise. You were kind to escort my daughter here.”  
  
“Far from it, it is my duty to protect this sweet, innocent creature,” Jon replied, glancing at her and speaking in a tone that sounded so much like genuine adoration that it made her heart ache.  
  
“I hope you did not break the news to her already, as that was my intention when I summoned her.”

Alayne looked at Jon with an expression of confusion. News? What news?  
  
“I did not, My Lord. I would never think to take such liberties.”  
  
Baelish smiled. “Excellent! Then we can tell her together! In fact---“ He turned slightly, snatching up the parchment he’d been frantically scribbling on, and brought it forward.  
  
“Alayne, my dear, sweet, beautiful daughter,” he said, his tone sickly sweet, his eyes fixed upon her, the paper thrust out towards her as he grew ever close, “Prince Jon and I have come to an arrangement regarding you.”  
  
Sansa took this as her opportunity. Summoning the skills that years of practice had given her, she looked back and forth between Baelish in Jon in dismay, let her lip quiver, and, instead of taking the parchment offered to her, allowed her eyes to well up and her summoned tears to spill.  
  
“What is the matter, Sweetling?!” Jon asked in dismay, trying to pull her to him, but she resisted. Alayne stepped back. She couldn’t help but enjoy Jon’s genuine shock. She hadn’t told him about this part.  
  
“‘The Maiden’s love and worth is her virtue, her chastity. It is she, beyond all others, who looks upon young women, flowered but unwed, with a loving eye, gives them their worth. But lo, it is only those who are pure, those who are chaste, those who are virgins, who gain the Maiden’s favor. If a maiden should lose her virginity outside the confines of her marriage bed, she loses her purity, her goodness. She is damaged beyond repair, and the Maiden can no longer look upon her and protect her, or argue for her before the Father when her soul is judged, for the maiden has rejected the Maiden’s Gift, and spat in the face of the Seven, letting herself be despoiled. Unlikely is it for such a ruined creature to find love of the gods again, for she will not be able to go to her marriage bed chaste, and make a truly pure marriage, and her sin shall cast doubt even upon her children, and cause her lord husband and offspring much anguish. And for that, she is unlikely to find an advocate with the Mother either, when her time of judgment comes. Nor shall the Crone take pity, despairing and finding revulsion at a woman who would be so unwise as to ruin herself. Thus, when the Stranger comes and leads such a woman away, this ruined creature will find no advocates among the Seven to argue for her. The Maiden shall not argue for the virtue displayed in Maidenhood, for there was none. The Mother will not argue for her virtues as a wife or mother, since she will have brought a taint to her family. And the crone shall not argue on behalf of her wisdom, for only the most foolish, thoughtless, and unwise creature would destroy herself so utterly.’” She recited. In the corner of her eye, she noticed her false father looking confused, as if tryig to remember if that was actually in the Seven-Pointed Star or not.  
  
She more or less sobbed this out, casting pleading looks to both Jon and Father. Inside, she smirked. Baelish had wanted her to study the religious texts and play at piety, to be able to recite dull holy texts to ward people off at opportune moments. She was merely playing the part. Alayne was virtuous, chaste, and pious. An untouchably innocent maiden.

Taking advantage of the stunned silence, Alayne fell to her knees, clasping her hands in a reverant, pleading manner. “Please, Father,” she said, gazing desperately at Petyr, “I would not dishonor you, not disobey you for anything. I love you so, I only wish to be the most dutiful and obedient of daughters. Obedience, respect, and love for one’s Father is as important a virtue as a maiden’s chastity. I would no sooner be defiant than I would be unchaste. But please, I beg of you, do not ask me to sacrifice my virtue! Do not ask me to ruin myself! Do not ask me to sacrifice my place in the mother’s heart, my chance to be a good and honorable bride, for this!”

For once, it seemed Littlefinger seemed speechless. Alayne took this opportunity to shift and kneel towards Jon instead.

“My prince, please know that I do love and respect you. The honor you do someone as unworthy as me with your affection is more than I could ever hope for. For all the world, I would deny you nothing. I am honored by your interest, for even the slightest glance my way is the kindest charity. You have shown me nothing but the kindest, most sincere, and gallant attentions. And now, forgive me, because I clearly lost myself in joy of your esteem and, unwittingly but no less indecently, have clearly encouraged you. I have clearly, with my wantonness, led you to pursue me in such a manner, informed you that my virtue was forfeit to you. Forgive me. As I have clearly led you to this conclusion, it is my sin, my obligation to you to give you that which I unintentionally promised. And if you so wish it, I will deliver what was promised. But, I beg of you… I know you were raised in the North with the Northern gods of the trees and no names, and I am ignorant of their laws, but please, take pity on a girl who was named in the Light of the Seven. Whose chastity is the key to her soul’s salvation, who loses all if she loses her virtue as decreed by the Seven! I beg of you, even a bastard girl who has erred can have honor. Once I am dishonored, I am lost. I will love you, serve you, in any other way you wish. Just please, I beg of you, don’t make me your mistress!”

“Alayne..” Jon’s voice was gentle. But she just looked down at the ground and sniffed.

“I know a prince’s bed is far too fine and exalted a place for the likes of me, and that I have no business refusing it. If this is how I can best serve my father and my prince, I shall do it. But as unfit as I am to decide such things, I would rather go to my marriage bed a virgin to husband less high, more befitting my status, with my honor undamaged and my family untainted, and be able to go before The Seven upon my death worthy in their eyes. Please, nothing in my life shall mean anything if I lose my honor and my soul.”

There was silence after that for a while. Then it was broken by a small choking sound, rising in volume. And Alayne realized what it was. Baelish was laughing at her. She looked up at him, still playing the part.

“Father, please…”

Now he was laughing aloud, red-faced. He threw the parchment at her and looked to Jon. “You… You.. You tell… The stupid… Over-dramatic… Girl…”

Alayne looked down at the parchment and started scanning Littlefinger’s spidery script. ‘I, Lord Petyr of House Baelish, Lord of Harrenhal, Lord of Midlor Point, Lord Protector of the Vale of Arryn, and regent of the Eyrie, do hereby petition to their Graces King Aegon of the House Targaryen, Sixth of his name, and Queen Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, Forst of their Names, King and Queen of the Seven Realms of Westeros, Khal and Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, King and Queen of Slaver’s Bay, Prince and Princess of Dragonstone, Heir and Mother of Dragons, Protectors of the Real , that my natural daughter, Alayne Stone of House Baelish, here fore be legitimized and recognized as a full member and heir to my House, holdings, properties, and titles, to inherit upon my death barring the birth of a true born son of my own.’

What she expected, of course. But she feigned surprise. “I don't understand.”

Petyr kept laughing. It sounded cruel. But then, there was little that came form him which didn’t. Clutching his side, he sauntered over to his desk and poured himself a cup of Dornish Red. Jon knelt down beside her, took her hand gently, and looked into her eyes. Gentle and gallant and you play the part so well. Why did you have to be lying when you said you loved me? That was enough to make her tears almost genuine.

“My Lady, I would never, ever dream of asking you to compromise your virtue. I swear it by the Old Gods of my ancestors, and the New Gods of yours. It is your goodness, your purity, that has made me lose my heart to you utterly. Unfortunately, due to the circumstances of your birth, you are not fit to be my bride. That is why Your father and I are petitioning to have you declared true born and noble. As such, as heir to Harrenhal until your father sires a brother upon a new wife, you will be high enough to be an eligible match. I don’t seek to make you my concubine, I seek to make you my wife, in the eyes of gods and men.”

Sansa wiped her eyes. “No, you jape. I am a bastard born. Unworthy. You are meant for a more worthy lady, of higher birth, true born, and noble. Only a lady like that is fit to be your wife.”

Jon now enclosed both her hands in his. “After finding you, knowing you, I know for certain that there is no fit bride for me but you. No lady born to the highest Houses within the bonds of wedlock can match you in beauty, kindness, honesty, purity, humility, patience, gentleness, cleverness, honor, or devotion to duty. I have watched you with Lord Arryn knowing that whatever sons I have can only have you as their mother. That my side shall remain empty without you. That not spending my life with you can only leave me to misery and madness. I am a man who is alone without you. The world is not right if I cannot face it with you by my side. I have come to realize that I truly, deeply love you. That I have in fact lost my heart to you and that nothing else matters unless you would accept it.”

There it was. She saw it. The certainty, the earnestness, the desperation. The same as when he’d begged her not to blame herself for her father’s death. Different from that night when he first made claims of love. It sounded so true.

But no. Maybe he believes he loves me. But a person who would so deceive me could not truly love me. And even if he does love me, it’s too late. He is unworthy of my love. I deserve better than to lose myself again to someone who had hurt me so. I can't love someone I can't trust. There have to be consequences. Still, Sansa did her duty as she always did. Alayne played her part as she always did. A great big smile blazed across her tear-stained face.

“Truly? Your aunt and brother shall not object?”

“If they do, I shall issue them an ultimatum. If they deny this, or they harm you, they lose me. But I do not think they will object, not once you are a made true born. Your father shall supply a very grand dowry. And I am certain that within ten minutes of you arriving at court, you shall have stolen their hearts as you’ve stolen mine. Once they know you, the people will shout and cry for you to be their princess, of that I am sure. You shall be my bride, Alayne, I am determined.”

It was like from a song or story. The sort of thing she’d dreamt of. She wanted so much to succumb. But life was not a song. With Jon, for a while, she started to believe again that perhaps that wasn’t true, that life could be a song. But that was all a lie. And even if this wasn’t, he’d broken her heart once and she could never, ever trust him with it again. She had to remind herself that it was all pre-planned nonetheless.

She sniffed, then looked over at Baelish, who was downing the last of his cup. “My lord father consents?”

Her lord father spat out his wine from a new bout of laughter. Jon began to laugh as well, as did Alayne. When her father finally caught his breath, he spoke, “Yes, daughter mine, I give my consent for you to wed the heir to the new empire of the dragons, the hero of the dawn, Prince of Westeros and Slaver's Bays, and rider of Rhaegal the Green. I have decided to accept our guest’s honor to make you a princess and second lady in all of the realm, mother to princes.”

Sansa and Jon’s eyes met. But the moment was spoiled by Baelish’s continued chuckling.

“Oh please Father!” He said in a cruel, mocking, high pitch. “Please don't order me to become a royal whore! My virtue!”

“Sweet girl.” Jon was stroking her hair now. “Of course your father would never do anything to compromise your virtue. He is a good father, who would stomach nothing less than delivering you to me innocent, pure, virtuous, untouched. Isn’t that right, Lord Baelish?”

“Of course.” He was still sniggering. “The mysteries of what transpires between a man and a woman are not for a good girl to know until she is delivered to her marriage bed. You are a good girl, Alayne, and I intend to keep you that way.”

“See? Your father would never, ever allow you to be exploited or dishonored in such a way. Never. He loves you, almost as much as I do. And we shall do anything at all to protect and preserve your honor. If anyone tried to use you, I assure you, that man would be flayed from his brows to his toes. Isn't that right, Lord Baelish?”

Her father suddenly wasn't laughing, ”Aye, my prince.”

Jon kissed her knuckles and smiled. “We will go to court after you’ve been declared legitimate. You’ll travel with your father’s household, and Lord Arryn. You will have an honored place, first as the true born, noble daughter and heir of one of our greatest lords, then, as soon as possible, as my future bride. I’ve spoken to your father, and I insist you arrive at court looking every inch as elegant and rich as you deserve. I will introduce you to my aunt--- the Queen will adore you, everyone will. So, I want you to start arranging and preparing your things, alright?”

“What if their graces refuse to legitimize me?” She asked, her tone all innocence. She was so good at faking innocence.

“You leave that to us, Sweetling,” replied Baelish in the sort of tone one would use on a skittish horse. “You focus on taking care of Lord Robert and making yourself into the princess we know you to be,”

~_~_~_~_~_~_~

She’d slipped Jon a note at dinner saying she wasn’t feeling up to meeting. So she spent the evening examining herself, bathing, resting. Her lady’s maid was plaiting her hair when there was a soft knock at the door. Sansa sighed and bid them to enter.

As expected, it was her grinning Lord Father, bottle of wine in hand. He swayed a bit, obviously in good spirits. Petyr quickly dismissed her maid, closing the door behind the girl, and practically dancing towards the drink stand to uncork the bottle and pour them cups, “Applause, Sweetling, applause. I was a fool to have doubted you. You utterly exceeded my expectations. And here I thought you needed coaching! Gods!”

Sansa loathed that part. So Jon’s fears were valid. She wanted him to be wrong about everything.

Grinning, Petyr brought over the filled cups and set them down on the dressing table, then move behind her, leaning over her shoulder and stroking her cheek. She could smell the wine in his breath. “But how could I have doubted my perfect, luscious, enchanting daughter?”

She pouted. “You were losing your patience. You refused to take into account that men like Jon take time. You didn’t trust me to know him well enough.

His face twitched in slight annoyance, but the smile was back almost instantly, “Yes, well, I have to admit, that was quite a risk you took with that martyred outburst of yours. You might have scared him off with that. No man wants a cold fish septa in the bed, murmuring prayers of forgiveness as he fucks her.”

“I knew what I was doing, actually. Exactly what I was doing.” She pushed him back a bit, then turned to face him. “Jon idolizes me for my virtue. He is struck by my honor, my virtue, my purity.”

Petyr frowned. “That may be a problem after the wedding night. Once that’s gone he might lose interest. And we need a son off of him.”

“I’ve foreseen that too. See, just because I am a chaste maiden who fiercely protects her purity, does not mean I do not have desires of my own. I am a chaste, sweet, spotless maiden because I know what’s right and honorable and would never do anything to sacrifice my honor. But at the same time, the reason I am just so virtuous is because I burn. I desire him. There is a heat inside me, an urge that I fight so hard to control. So that the moment I can finally, at last give in with a clear conscience… All of my passion will at last be his to enjoy.”

She saw Littlefinger’s Adam’s Apple bob. “And he doesn’t find this as a strike against your virtuous image? That these desires are bubbling underneath?”

“On the contrary, it reinforces my commitment to purity and goodness that I am able to resist such powerful temptation. Jon is looking forward to a wife he can mold as he wishes. An innocent, untouched maiden who knows nothing of the act of love that he gets to teach, one desperate, eager, burning to have him do this for her, committed utterly to the standards that require her to be unavailable to men, except finally that night when she’s finally his and no one else’s. The wife who, after holding back for so long, is finally ready to completely and utterly surrender herself, and look to him to be the one to give her that which she’s always wanted, which only he can give, which she can only learn of from him. One who desperately yearns to do everything, give him everything he wants, everything that keeps him awake at night, but won’t just yet because of her commitment to the very same principles that will keep her from ever, ever giving herself to another man. Whose mysteries and passions are to be his and only his, and of an unlimited supply, and will defer to his desires knowledge.”

Petyr leaned down again, panting, but Sansa pulled away. “Of course, that requires me to actually be that creature. Ignorant of any sort of act of love and reliant on him curing me of that, faithful to him. Truly untouched, not just un-breached. My only short bursts of relief coming from when I simply can’t help myself and must kiss him and let me hold him until it’s gone just long enough, then break away from for virtue’s sake.”

“You’re an awful tease.”

“Jon respects adherence to principle. But he also has his passions.”

Petyr snorted. “Funny, usually I'm rather good at reading this sort of thing, but he honestly didn’t seem the type to me. To go for that manner of girl.”

Alayne shook her head. “Not girl. Not even woman. Lady.”

Then she remembered who she was talking to. Girl, woman, lady, whore… All the same to him.

“Ladies who have expectations and responsibilities placed on them. Whose duty and service to their family hinges greatly on their conduct and purity. Who was raised with a certain set of beliefs about what is right and what is wrong, and is devoted to upholding those beliefs. Someone whose goodness comes with responsibility. By being chaste, I'm not untouched, I'm doing my duty, denying myself in service to my role in life, devoting myself to doing what is right and honorable for myself and my family. If I were a wildling or a milk maid, he would probably prefer a woman who pursues what she wants, takes control, lives and loves freely. But for them, being a virgin isn’t a duty. No one’s future or honor depends on their maidenhead. they’re not endangering the reputation and prospects of their kin by losing their maiden heads. But virgin ladies are virgins because they care for their family, because morals and the well-being and honor of their loved ones matters more than physical needs or desires.” She took a deep breath. She felt like a child again, repeating the words her septa had taught her.

“A virginal lady is a dutiful, honorable one. And he likes people who share his devotion to duty and honor. Once we’re we'd, though, he’ll delight in doing all manner of things, crave me initiating and taking pleasure in those acts. Once I’ve been his wife and his student for a while, he’ll delight in me being his wildling. But the important part will be that I did my duty and maintained my honor.”

Petyr snorted.“You seem to have given this a lot of thought.”

“I have.” She frowned and cupped her temple. “How was the match settled? What happened?”

“He wants to supplant Daenerys and Aegon. He wants me to help him.”

No mention of the Tyrells or Martells. Sansa feigned surprise. “Surely not! He always speaks so well of the Queen!”

“That doesn't mean he thinks she should rule. Daenerys and Aegon were raised in exile. They’re foreigners. And he wants power.”

“So his talk of love was all talk then. I'm a pawn.”

She felt Petyr’s eyes upon her. Finally, he said, “Surely this can’t come as a surprise to you? You aren’t disappointed, are you? Alayne. He was your brother, for the seven’s sale! And besides, what does it matter? That sing-song love, that Aemon the dragon knight supposedly had for Queen Naerys, it’s the stuff of legends designed to trick girls like you into being docile, eager brides.”

“I'm starting to think you’re right,” she replied, “But regardless of my feelings towards him, it would have been nice to think someone loved me.”

“If it makes you feel better, I believe he feels the closest thing to that to actually exist when it comes to you.”

Sansa looked up. “And what is that?”

“Obsession. What men call love. It’s not what’s sung of. It’s not the sweet things you dream of. Those are merely the tools we use to pursue our fixation. To attain you, acquire you, have you. It consumes us. You consume us. This feeling, this knowledge that you are the one thing we must attain.” His voice grew more stilted, more raspy, more tense as he spoke. He stopped, taking several deep breaths. While he looked at her, Sansa could tell he wasn’t seeing her. He sees my mother. Petyr calmed himself then. “I believe that is what our ambitious prince feels for you. Perhaps that was unexpected, and there may certainly be other reasons for this match, but I see it. I smell it. And, hopefully, once he has you, that still won’t be enough, he’ll need to possess you the way you possess him, you’ll need to stay his utterly. If so, he’ll continue to honor and respect you, give you all the sweetness you crave, and show concern for your happiness. Just make sure to give him what he wants when he has you, and don’t grow troublesome or dull. Then you may have a happy marriage. Or, at least one that isn’t fraught with humiliation.”

Sansa stared at him, suddenly chilled to her bones. “Is that what you felt for my mother?”

Petyr gritted his teeth, then took a long drink from his cup, slamming it back onto the table’s surface. “If she’d have at least given me her favor, told me that she truly loved me, written me… I might have been happy. I’d have waited for her, as long as I knew that even as she bore his children and shared his bed, she was yearning for me, thinking of me, pretending she was with me. As log as I knew that she felt as deprived without me as I did without her, if I had a sign that she knew who she was meant for, truly, I could have waited.”

Sansa shivered. She yearned for her mother’s chamber and their warmth at that moment. She yearned for the comfort, the safety of those rooms. The love. She wanted very badly to cry.

All of a sudden, he bent down, hovered over her, his face inches from his. “You look just like her. But even lovelier. Pretty. It’s the lips, I think. And your height. Your neck. And your eyes… Cat’s were always so sharp, exact, like flint. Yours are so… Full… Her eyes let stuff out, they attacked, they tore through everything. Yours… Yours absorb. They accept things. They mourn and laugh and receive and gather and hold. They don’t cut or judge or attack. They just take it all in, and hold onto it all, as of everything, no matter how horrible, is worth keeping. You look at everything as if it’s worth being seen, even if it’s painful or ugly or cruel or terrifying. It’s why, after all these years, you still manage to look so innocent, so fruitful, so young. Haunted and tragic, but so lush and ripe.”

Sansa got to her feet. “You are in your cups, Petyr! Is that any way to present yourself to your darling?! You should control yourself. What kind of example are you setting for my dear Sweetrobin?!”

She heightened the pitch of her voice as she said this. She widened her eyes to a bugged, mad size. She pursed her lips as tightly as she could. She adjusted her gait so her footfalls were heavier, her shoulders more slumped.

He stepped back then, shaking his head. “Goodnight, my sweet daughter. You needn’t kiss me goodnight but I shall expect an extra one in the morning.”

He fled from the room. Sansa threw herself onto the bed, desperately clutching at her coverlet. She felt so afraid. So alone.

She dreamt of Lady. Not the pup she’d lost to Cersei Lannister’s orders and her father’s sword. But Lady as she’d have been if she’d been allowed to grow. They were in the woods, the two of them. It was dark and the trees were gnarled and empty of leaves, each branch like a claw. Lady was ahead of her. She took off into a run. Sansa followed her wolf, desperate to get her back again. Tell her that she was so sorry she failed to protect her, hold her once again.

She ran into a tree, blinded by her tears. She fell back, pain overtaking her forehead. She fell to the ground. Those clawed branches were grabbing at her. Lady was gone. Gone forever. She’d lost her. Forever. She’d never find her wolf again.

  


 


	4. The Tactician

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Challenges and confessions are made in Gulltown.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) Sorry this took so long and  
> 2) Warning: unbeta'd.

Chapter Four: The Tactician

Sansa:

“Gulltown was originally a port of the First Men, before the Andals came to Vale and civilized it.”

Sansa doesn’t like saying that last bit, but she’s supposed to be Alayne, pious follower of the Seven, and instructing both Sweetrobin and the prince on the city’s history. They stand at the ramp on the pavilion of Grafton Castle, overlooking the main port. Salt-scented wind blows through her hair as ships float over blue-grey waters. She points.

“Just there is where Queen Alysanne’s fleet fought Aegon the Conqueror’s.”

“Who won?” Robin asks, grabbing Sansa’s hand protectively.

“Technically, it was a draw, but one which served the Targaryens as it destroyed both fleets and the Targaryens didn’t need their ships as much as the Arryns needed theirs.”

Robin scowls. “Then that Queen Visenya went to the Eyrie with her dragon and threatened my ancestor.”

“Through implication, yes,” Sansa sighs, “Alysanne returned to the Eyrie’s throne room to find her son in Visenya Targaryen’s lap. And she surrendered immediately. But we’re not here to learn more of the Eyrie, but of Gulltown. As Lord of the Vale, you must know of your most vital port.”

“The most vital Houses of Gulltown are House Grafton, House Shett, and the branch Arryns. During the War for the Dawn we were among the first ports to ship grain and other vital items to Eastwatch-By-The-Sea through both trade and as gifts,” Robin recites the lessons Sansa and Coleman gave him in a bored tone, “But merchant families are gaining prominence and have been for twenty years since my father put Lord Baelish in charge of the customs of Gulltown. Thanks to this, our profits have increased tenfold and begun rivaling the revenues of even Lannisport.”

“Excellent.” Sansa beams at him. Coleman was useless as a healer, but he was an excellent tutor. As long as there was someone around to make sure he actually made Robin work.

Robin blushes. Then he leans over the rail to look at Jon. “We gave a  _ lot  _ to the Watch during the War for the Dawn. Lord Baelish didn’t want to, but Alayne and I convinced him to. Remember that.”

Jon smiles. “I shall, Lord Arryn. The realm is forever indebted to House Arryn for their support, without which, we may not be here.”

“I’ll make sure other people remember it, too. Not just you.”

“Of course.”

Sweetrobin is displeased with the current arrangements. And he’s made no secret of it. Indeed, he made a great fuss over the prince touring the Vale with him before they leave for court. This is something that the Vale has been clamoring for since Robin was a boy, so they couldn’t say no. Sansa is conflicted about the whole thing. On one hand, it gave them more time to gather evidence. On the other, it stalled things. More time to wait before she gained her freedom.

Still, she hasn’t had too much to complain about, comfort-wise. She’s toured parts of the Vale before with Petyr, but never in full. And being newly legitimized and the (unofficial) mistress/betrothed of the prince, she was afforded far more status and luxury than she is used to as the bastard Alayne Stone.

As her reputation in the Vale grew over the years, Alayne Stone was slowly shown more and more honors, of course. In some cases, she received attentions finer than many of the trueborn ladies. But certain protocols always had to be in place. She couldn’t ride alongside the head of her father’s retinue, she was always given lower-ranking quarters, she had to sit at a lower table at banquets, she had to dress her station. Sure, she usually got invited to sit at a higher table later and was ushered to the front of a retinue or sent gifts to make her living quarters more comfortable anyways, but there was always that initial acknowledgment. Not to mention every man from the stable boys to the high-ranking lords felt comfortable trying to seduce her.

But she’s Alayne Baelish now, officially. And rumors swirl. Some say she is simply Jon’s mistress, but others wonder. If that’s the truth, then why is she legitimized by royal decree? She is heir to Harrenhal now, among other things, a full lady. Now the stable boys dare not say a word to her. Everyone shows her a certain new level of respect. She is given a place of honor by her father’s side at every banquet, quarters befitting a lady, an expanded personal staff, and a far lovelier trousseau, permitted to wear many of the expensive gifts she’s received over the years.

Sansa is draped in emerald silk now, and about her neck is a gold and garnet choker one of the younger sons of House Grafton spent tournament winnings on to give her. He’s married now, but the Graftons take it as a compliment.

“No one in their right mind shall forget the work done by those who helped save the realm,” Sansa remarks, staring out at the horizon line, “I’m sure Prince Jon wouldn’t allow it, given his role in that war.”

It sounds like nothing but glowing praise. But there’s a message underneath it.  _ I was helping you for years and you didn’t even know it. I’ve been invaluable to you for so long, and you’ve betrayed me.  _ She wants him to know to the fullest extent why any declaration of love from him should have only been the truth.

“Never,” Jon says, clearing his throat. He leans over, and Sansa knows he burns to speak with her. But now that their courtship is public, they must have an escort. And Sweetrobin hovers more than the average escort.

He’s apologized a thousand times by now. But Sansa is weary of apologies. Apologies rarely, if ever, fixed things. Tyrion Lannister once told her that he was sorry about the loss of her father. Did that bring him back? Then Lannister proceeded to work for his family’s interests, marry her, and more of her family died.

Now Lannister is Hand of the Queen. And Jon is Prince. And she’s a broken-hearted fake bastard who has heard “Sorry” thousands of times.

Luckily, she doesn’t have to say a thing. Sweetrobin does that for her. “Careful there! Leave room for the Maiden!” He snaps, “People are already saying enough.”

Both of them go red. “We pay no mind to idle gossip,” Sansa admonishes him.

“We  _ do, _ ” Robin replies, “You’re always saying words have power, from the lowest beggar, to the greatest lord, what people say and believe affects the world around us.”

Sansa sighs. She did tell him that. Robert has an irritatingly selective memory. What he lacks in physical strength, he’s starting to make up for in wits.

“People have been speaking of me for years, and I’ve always proven stronger,” she answers, “This shall be no different.”

“Things change when a crown is involved.”

Sansa tries not to groan. She’d told him that, too.

Jon clears his throat. “Shall I fight a duel for my lady’s honor, then?”

“If you lose---“ Robert pauses for a moment, then adopts an unconvincing tone, “But surely you want. Yes, do it. Challenge the next man who claims Alayne is your whore.”

“My Lord!” Sansa glares at him. “Stop it now!”

“How can he be your husband if he can’t protect you and your honor?” Robert insists. “It would be like a song.”

“Life is not a song! Stop it now.” She glares at Jon as well. He just had to put that idea in the little lord’s head.

“Now, let’s not get too upset---“

“---You’re the ones speaking of drawing steel.” Sansa’s had enough. “I beg your pardon, gentlemen, but I think I shall retire. I feel a headache coming on.”

She takes her skirts and hurries away, thoroughly tired of them both. And men in general.

Sansa makes a point of wearing Arryn colors to the banquet that evening. She is seated by Littlefinger, and pretends not to feel the eyes on her. All seek something, something between her and Jon, even the slightest glance to report and exaggerate.

Their halfway through the second course when an outburst erupts. Jon is on his feet, having knocked over his chair, and glares at one of the Grafton knights.

“You dare slander my lady, Ser? How dare you speak ill of Lady Alayne?! She is as pure as the Maiden!”

“I---I--- I apologize, My Prince,” the youth stutters, “I meant no---“

“This offense cannot go unanswered, Ser.” Jon turns to the master of the keep. “Forgive me, Lord Grafton, but your man has slighted my honor and that of a most virtuous lady. A duel is required.”

Everyone gapes. Except Sansa.

“O-of course, Prince Jon. All we ask is that you take it to the yard.”

Jon nods and turns on his heel, only pausing to place the chair upright once more.

The court, chattering, shuffles out. Sansa wishes to sink into the floor. Petyr puts a hand on her arm. “This should be interesting.”

It proved about as interesting as a greenboy knight dropping his blade from his shaking hand and swearing by the Father that he spoke false when he referred to the Lord Protector’s daughter as a “randy bastard” and the prince’s “mistress”, that Lady Alayne was as innocent and chaste as a newborn babe.

Jon smirks with satisfaction, and his eyes fly to Sansa. His smile only slightly falters when he sees her expression.

Hours later, he’s protesting in his bedchamber. The room is beautifully furnished but smaller than one would expect. “Come now, even if he’d fought me, he was a weak greenboy. And even if he wasn’t, what man is going to risk killing the crown’s only heir? None. Any man who harms a hair on my head risks the ire of my aunt, for himself and his House. I defended your honor, publicly, and made a statement. I even dropped a few references to the Seven to show everyone what a good influence you are!”

“People will think I’m driving you mad!” She insists, though she sees his point. “And what will your aunt think of me, driving you to charge into duels constantly?”

“Daenerys trusts me to take care of myself.”

“You can’t go around causing skirmishes in every court we visit! I doubt she’ll appreciate that! This was supposed to be a diplomatic visit, remember? And the boy apologized. You’re more likely to be seen as a bully, and me as an instigator for this. I’ve worked hard for years to build a good reputation with these people!”

“He basically said you were my whore!”

“So? Even as your whore, I can be seen as a positive influence, pressured into being one by my father. People have been whispering about me for years, but always had sympathy. But this… It’s going to look like I’m manipulating you into bullying anyone who speaks ill of me. I’d rather be a sympathetic whore than a manipulative, bullying one!”

Jon cups his brow and scowls. “So what am I to do? Just play along, listen to and swallow these insults? If I don’t do anything, they’ll take that as confirmation!”

“You can deny it, it doesn’t mean you have to draw blades over it!” 

“What if I want to, Sansa?!” He demands.

“Resist the impulse!” She felt like she was talking to Sweetrobin. Exasperation overwhelms her. She scans the room for a pitcher of wine, but finds none. 

“Easier said than done!”

“You did not survive this long, accomplish so much, by giving into your every urge! If Robert can talk himself down from oncoming fits, then you can control your temper!”

“What makes you think it’s a question of ‘can’, Sansa?”

This makes her step back. Her head hurts. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Maybe I don’t want to be mature about this.” His eyes bore into hers. 

“So you’d rather act like a child and hurt me?”

“No. Not you. Never you. Never again. Hurt anyone who would hurt you.”He steps closer. “I have to tolerate Baelish around you constantly. The way he looks at you, treats you… You think I don’t see it? And I have to hear these people speak of you as well… Because of him. Because of what he’s done to you. It’s not just about quieting gossip. I want to scare him, too. Make him step away.”

“You put him on his guard, and taking him down becomes all the more difficult.”

Jon’s hands ball into fists. “Do you know what it feels like, to hear people assume these things? Say it to my face?”

“It’s better than what they could be saying. Contrary to popular belief, there are much worse things for a woman to be than a non-virgin. Does my maidenhead really matter to you that much?”

“That’s not---” He scowls. “---It’s not about your maidenhead. It’s about people thinking I’d use you like that!”

“You did!” She feels tears prick at her eyes. “Or tried to, anyways.”

“I tried. But I couldn’t. I never could. It’s bad enough that my attempt hurt you. And the way they speak of you--- like you’re a thing. A toy. A plaything. A piece of meat to ogle. Not knowing or caring about the truth, about who you are. Like you’re not even real!”

“Alayne isn’t!”

“But you are! And regardless, Alayne is a part of you, and what happens to her, affects you. You think I don’t realize that? I don’t see that?” He steps even closer again. “These people don’t even see you. And even if they did, would they care? You were played with before Alayne, used before Alayne. And I can’t take it, Sansa. You’re too important to be fodder for these people, you’re too precious.”

Sansa swallows. “If I can be so easily injured by words, than I’m not worth what you say I am.”

“That’s not true. And I don’t care whether you’re strong enough to withstand it or not, Sansa. I know you are. That’s not the point. You shouldn’t have to! You shouldn’t have to endure this. You shouldn’t have to prove how strong you are. You shouldn’t act like you’re not a thousand leagues above these sniveling shits. You deserve respect. You deserve to have someone fight for you.”

“I fight for me. I’ve been fighting for me since I was twelve years old.”

“Well, I want to fight for you now.”

“Why?!” She says, flabbergasted. “If you really think I can handle things, then why is it so important to you? Was saving the entire realm from White Walkers not enough fighting for you?”

“It wasn’t enough, no.” He takes a deep breath. “As long as I can fight for you.”

Her heart softens slightly, in spite of herself. She takes a few deep breaths. “So this is about guilt, then.”

“What?”

“About not saving me and Arya and Father and Robb and Bran? If you’re trying to make up for not being everywhere and saving everyone somehow--- aside from how you already have literally saved everyone--- I’ve told you what I need from you. You won’t make up for a thing if you act this way, though.” Sansa shakes her head. “We all wish we could have saved each other.”

“If this were just about family guilt, I never would have come to the Vale. I’d have found a way to never leave Rickon’s side. I didn’t even know you were here for sure until you revealed yourself.”

“Yeah, but there were whispers,” she answers, “Some part of you hoped, so you came for me.”

“If that were all it was, I would have recognized you at once.”

Her head hurts so bad. She wants to cry. “Then what, Jon? Why can’t you just swallow this? Act rationally? Just go with the plan?”

“Because the plan means you still thinking it’s just that. A plan. An act.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Being in love with you.”

Her blood runs cold. She stumbles back, as if he’d struck her in the stomach. Her lungs even seem empty. But Jon just keeps stepping forward.

“I think I meant it last time and didn’t know it. Maybe I didn’t want to have these feelings for my so-called ‘sister’. But I know now, Sansa. I’m so sorry. But I can’t stand it. I spend the days professing my love, and no matter how much I mean it, there’s no relief because it’s no more than a ruse to you. It means nothing if you don’t feel it. And every day I feel it more, and it’s even worse. I feel like I’m dying of thirst, standing over a well, drawing a leaking bucket up over and over, the water all spilling out before I can bring it to my lips. Every time I look at you, flatter you, touch you, kiss you, speak of you. 

“Because you don’t know. And all that seems to happen is that how I feel just gets twisted by these people. It’s bad enough that you don’t believe it. You have good reason. But the only reason these people have to say what they say is malice, pettiness, lust. I can’t stand for you to be treated that way. It’s like watching them spill gallons of water into the dirt as I’m struggling to drink. It’s bad enough that I’ve ruined any chance to have you, but I can’t bring myself to let you be so mistreated as well.”

Sansa closes her eyes, hugs herself, and turns away. “Why can’t I ever be allowed peace?” She mumbles this.

“What?”

“I let myself believe you the first time. I was devastated when I saw the truth. But at least then, I was sure it was a lie. I knew where we stood.” She swallows. “You hurt me, Jon. Don’t you realize that? You hurt me so, so much. Even Robert can sense it. He’s not just being protective. He bloody hates you.” She snorts. “More than he’s hated any of my suitors, some of whom were of far weaker character and didn’t treat me nearly as well. But he can sense it. I’ve said nothing to him, but he knows. He’s my son, you see. I may not have birthed him, but he’s my son. And a son knows when someone has truly hurt his mother.”

“Sansa, I---”

“You think nobody here sees me, knows me. But he does. He truly does. And he didn’t have to know my name was ‘Sansa Stark’ or grow up with me to do it. And I have friends. People here I care for. Such as it is, I’ve made a life for myself here. I’ve let myself love, but still guarded my heart. I thought I’d mastered the art of protecting my heart while using it. Then you came in and broke it.”

She isn’t looking at him, but she can tell by his breathing that he’s trying not to weep. She’s done with her own efforts in that respect. She lets salty tears run down her cheeks. She wants him to see him.

“Now it’s like you’re trying to put the pieces of it back together. I wish you could. I wish I could. But it’s another heartbreak.” She swallows. “Because it seems that the only people who can love me are the ones that hurt me. Why can’t I ever be loved by someone who won’t do these things? Gods, even Father killed Lady.”

“I’m---”

“You think you were the only one confused about how you felt?” She demands, finally opening her eyes. “How do you think I felt? Years and years of dealing with foul men, longing for my family, only to see you again and feel an attraction. I felt like they’d infected me. I wondered if perhaps my life had become so defined by lust that I couldn’t even see family again without being twisted by it. That maybe I’d never really have a family again because of it.” She shudders. “But then you said you loved me, Jon. And I thought, well, maybe it was okay, if someone like you felt it as well. When I realized your lie, Jon, it wasn’t just that my heart was broken. It confirmed every foul thought I had of myself, made me believe I was, in some way, truly lost to the influence of the Petyr Baelishes and Cersei Lannisters of the world. Not only sick, but every bit as stupid and gullible as I was all those years ago. Stupid and filthy. And I felt even worse for feeling that way, letting myself be so affected by the fact that you didn’t love me. So not only filthy and stupid, but weak and dependent and pathetic as well.”

“You’re---”

“I want to be strong, Jon. I don’t want to let anyone hurt me anymore. I want to be in love. I want a good man, and to believe a good man can love me, think me worthy. I want so badly to let you be that man. If I don’t, I’m a coward. But if I do, I’m stupid again.” She grits her teeth and tries to think, looking away again.

She takes a deep breath. “There’s more depending on me being smart than me being brave. I need to be smart. Not just for me, but for others.” She thinks of Robert, and it strengthens her resolve. But Robert isn’t here. Jon is.

“Rickon was so young when we all left. Tell me, does he think of you as his brother? Did he remember you at all when you saw him again? Does he remember me?”

“Barely, for both of us. But he remembers a bit.”

“So how, when I see Rickon again for the first time in seven years, do I explain to him that his sister is his brother’s lover?”

“I said he remembers me. But I’m his cousin to him,” Jon says quickly.

“You sure? You haven’t asked him to think of you as his brother?”

“I---”

“He likely wants a brother. He must be so lonely…” Her heart aches for him. “He’s even younger than Sweetrobin.”

“He sometimes gets you confused with your mother, you know.”

“That doesn’t surprise me.” She snorts. “If my mother could see me now…”

“She’d be so proud of you, Sansa. So would your father.”

Sansa shakes her head again. It hurts so much. Everything hurts, really. 

“Sansa, I hate myself for what I did to you. I swear, I’d do anything to make it up to you. Please know, you’re not stupid, you’re not weak, you’re not filthy. You’re brilliant and loving and strong and good and beautiful. You’re perfection. You’re worth a hundred wars. A thousand. If there’s any good in me, it’s the part that loves you. The fact that you’d think ill of yourself is a sin. I love you. I always will. I’m yours.”

She makes her decision and turns. “I’m willing to believe that. But I gave you that trust without condition once before. I can’t let myself make the same mistake again, Jon. It pains me to subject anyone to unpleasantness, but… I’ll never be able to do this without some sort of assurance. You’ve said all manner of lovely things, but words are wind. So consider yourself on trial from this point on. You have to prove we can be in love.”

“How will I do that?”

“By making me feel secure in loving you.”

“What do I have to do, then?”

“I’m not sure. You can start by sticking to the plan. But I don’t know when I’ll finally be convinced. It may take years. It may never happen. But if I’m to deal with this uncertainty, then you should too. It’s only fair.” She straightens up, trying to regain her poise. “If you are willing, that is.”

He seems to swell. “Of course.”

“Excellent. Just let me assure you, Jon, making a spectacle of us and ruining my reputation across the Vale will not do it. Like I said, I’ve built a life here. I need you to respect that.”

Jon nods. “I think… I think I can control myself after all.”

“Good.” Sansa takes another deep breath. She needs to sleep. “Then goodnight, Prince Jon.”

She heads for the door. Jon hurries past her to open it eagerly. But before she passes into the hall, he touches her arm. 

“Sansa?”

“Yes?”

Their eyes meet.

“Don’t hesitate to be cruel, if you must.”

Sansa smiles and nods.

~_~_~_~_~_~_~

When she wakes, it’s to find Littlefinger sitting by her bed, grey-green eyes fixed upon her. Any remaining drowsiness is startled right out of her, and she immediately sits up, clutching the covers to her chest.

This only makes him grin. “I love watching you sleep. You look so innocent, so sweet, so peaceful. Watching you wake is lovely, too. You’re like a startled doe. And even the way you grip those blankets… You’re so careful, aren’t you?” 

Sansa takes a deep breath. Her heart beats with the speed of a hummingbird’s wings. “How long have you been---?”

“Just a few minutes. I wanted the first thing my sweet daughter saw this morning to be her proud papa.” He licks his lips. “You know, I’d love to watch you fall asleep at some point. Perhaps you’d let me sing you to sleep some night, like when you were a little girl?”

Sansa resists the urge to shudder. “But Father, you never sang to me.”

“That’s a great tragedy, Sweetling. I should have. I should have been there, with your mother, to sing you to sleep every night. I think a father feels these regrets most keenly when he feels he’s soon going to have to give his little girl up to another man. So perhaps you’ll indulge me, hmmm? On one of these last precious nights before I have to give you away forever? And let me sing you a lullaby until you fall asleep?”

It was times like these when Sansa became more and more certain that Baelish was truly going mad. It used to be that even when he spoke of being her “Father”, he did it in an abstract fashion. And always did so in a way that framed her as property, possessive, and/or lustful. But after a long while, he started speaking of her as if he truly believed she was his daughter, and wasn’t just trying to make others believe it. He would reference memories of things that never happened when they were alone, and not with any purpose. Once, even his seemingly innocuous comments had some manner of underlying intent. If it wasn’t to put on a show for others, assert his possession of her, pry a kiss from her, trick her, scare her, or subtly communicate some piece of information to her, it was to make himself feel in control. “My clever daughter”--- clever because she was his, of course.

But these days he seemed to truly believe she was his daughter sometimes. It still carries this uncomfortable, lustful undercurrent, but it’s different now. Sansa has become an expert at reading the deeper meaning of everything he says. But at this moment, all she can really hear is what he says. He wants to sing her a lullaby sometime. Because she’s his daughter. Sure, she’s still a daughter he wants to bed, but that’s not all of it. Once, having her fall asleep might have just been a means to render her unconscious so he could have his way with her with less resistance. But Sansa believes that his desire to sing her lullaby now is more than just means to indulge his lusts. He actually relishes the idea.

His desire to make up for lost time isn’t necessarily about the fact that he feels she should have been his daughter because her mother should have been his wife. He genuinely wishes he could have sung her to sleep. In a way not too different from how her actual father might feel.

And it terrifies her.

Sansa tries to choose her words carefully. “Perhaps you can sing me a lullaby now. Do you know any?”

He grins wider, and seems genuinely delighted. “The Father’s face is stern and strong/he sits and judges right from wrong/he weighs our lives, the short and long/and loves the little children…”

She sits through the entire thing and makes herself smile at his thin, raspy voice. When he finishes, she claps a little. “Thank you, Father.” Stomach turning, she makes herself move to the edge of the bed, lean towards him, and kiss his cheek. “It was lovely.”

Petyr grabs her sides, yanks her into his lap, and kisses her on both cheeks. “Not half so lovely as my lovely daughter. You’ve made your father so proud.”

She squirms in his lap, trying to simultaneously keep her balance and not rub against his cock. She also tries to affect a dreamy, thrilled manner. “He actually fought for me, Father! Like Aemon the Dragonknight fought to defend the honor of Queen Naerys!”

Sansa’s happy that this is such an obvious reference, since it also serves as a reminder of her prior connection with Jon.

“He’s not the first, and I’ll doubt he’ll be the last. But I am proud. To have my daughter’s virtue valiantly defended by a heroic prince is something most fathers only dream of. He’s yours, certainly.”

_ If you only knew…  _ She takes this opportunity to slip out of his lap. “Now it’s just a matter of keeping him. Which means preparing for the day ahead. I imagine even more eyes will be on us today than usual. And given the trouble he went to last night, I should be extra-beautiful for him today.” She makes for her dressing table, watching him in the mirror’s reflection. His gaze is steady and makes her skin crawl. “But I told him he’s not to do that again. I won’t have him hurt on my account.”

“When did you tell him this?”

“Last night, before bed. I went to his chambers to make sure he was okay and make him promise not to fight any more duels.” Sansa starts brushing her hair in the mirror, pretending that she isn’t watching him.

Petyr rises from his seat. “Then what happened?”

“He very reluctantly agreed after I cried some pretty tears, insisting that his life was more important to me than my reputation. He swore his love to me again, said he’d do anything to make me happy and prove his love. Then I left, and I assume he continued professing his love for me to his right hand for the rest of the night.”

Petyr seems to relax. Indeed, he throws his head back and laughs. “The prince is not the only one who should be careful, Sweetling,” he says, moving up behind her. His hand falls on the handle of her silver brush. He takes it from her and starts running it down the back of her hair. Sansa tries not to think of her mother. “The prince may be gallant, but he is a man. A virile, lusty man with needs…” Baelish shivers, then clutches a lock of her hair, stroking it with his thumb. “It must already be hard enough to… resist…”

Sansa tries to ignore what’s poking her right hip. “I’ll be careful, Father. I just wanted to make sure he was alright. I couldn’t bear it if he got hurt. I love him so much, Father. He’s so kind and strong and gentle and brave… He’s so very Northern, don’t you think? But not like some of those other men, with their bushy beards and ruddy faces. And so handsome, with his dark hair and grey eyes…”

Petyr pulls away then, eyes stricken, mouth twisted. “Yes, well, let’s hope he has more restraint than most Northmen. And some more wits.” 

Baelish was always deriding Northerners for their stupidity. For once, it doesn’t bother her. “But not  _ too  _ many wits, of course.”

It was good to let him leave with something. Baelish grins and snort. “Of course not. Well, I’ll let you get ready for the day. It’s our last in Gulltown, after all.”

“Thank you, Father. And thank you for the song.”

~_~_~_~_~

Jon:

He wakes early to go to the marketplace before the crowds choked the streets. The mountain lilies he purchases are still opening under the morning sun. The salmon he gets for their breakfast is so fresh that he half expects it to squirm and flop about.

_I defeated The Others, I can do this,_ he tells himself.

_...Right? _

 


End file.
